


Turbulent and Green

by summerofspock



Series: Green Things [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bickering, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Slice of Life, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but they're fixing it, theyre in love and theyre trying their best ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-01-16 14:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21272633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are working on forgiving each other, falling back in love, and finding the best way to be together now that the world didn't end.Featuring holidays, Warlock, loads of sexual tension, emotional conversations and healing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if you're here and you didn't read Green Things, all you need to know is that Aziraphale and Crowley broke each other's hearts pretty thoroughly before the apocalypse. that being said this will make loads more sense if you read p. 1 though you don't need to read p. 2
> 
> this starts up after ch 14 of Green Things and before the epilogue
> 
> Title from Frank O'Hara's Aus Einem April

Aziraphale wakes up half-naked on Crowley’s couch, Crowley an angular weight on top of him, chin digging into his chest as he snores. Aziraphale knows from experience that Crowley doesn’t normally snore this loud so something about sleeping on his stomach like this must be making it happen. It’s sort of irritating, that seesaw sound.

Aziraphale loves it.

Poking Crowley in the ribs until he stirs and slaps at Aziraphale’s hand, Aziraphale starts the process of scooting himself into a sitting position.

“You are the worst being in all of existence,” Crowley says when Aziraphale dumps him on the black cushion of his hideously modern sofa.

Aziraphale snaps himself into a more reasonable state of dress and stands. “I believe we could compete for that title.”

Crowley snags his own shirt from the ground and tugs it over his head, making his already ridiculously tousled hair more messy. Aziraphale stares at the long line of his legs, dusted in dark hair, the awkward bone of his knee where he tucks up his leg under himself. There’s a dark bruise at the juncture of his neck, shoulder still exposed by the neckline of his black henley. Aziraphale vividly remembers sucking it into his skin.

“You leaving then?” Crowley asks, voice a bit tight. Aziraphale forces himself to focus on his words and not the hot, possessive thing in his belly that stirs at the sight of that mark on his pale, freckled skin. 

“Only if you’d like me to,” Aziraphale says, frankly. He hopes Crowley doesn't. If Aziraphale had a preference, he wouldn't leave for quite some time. “But seeing as I’ve missed you terribly for going on five years and then something stressful called the apocalypse happened, I thought perhaps we could spend a bit more time together.”

It’s quite sarcastic but he now has confirmation that Crowley likes when he’s a bastard so the little quirk of Crowley’s lips is a welcome response even as his gaze darts away nervously.

Aziraphale tries to catch Crowley’s eye but the demon manages to slip on his sunglasses before he can. It prods at the old place in Aziraphale’s heart that fears Crowley’s uninterested in all this even though Aziraphale knows it’s irrational. Instead of doing what he’d done for years—they are going to get over this—he kisses the top of Crowley’s head before stepping away from the couch. “I love you.”

Crowley’s chin juts out in a way that Aziraphale thinks might mean he’s gearing up for a fight and then he slumps back against the cushions with a tired sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

Not the answer Aziraphale was looking for. When he stares down at Crowley for a moment, trying to figure out what to say, the demon sighs again and heaves himself off the couch, squeezing Aziraphale’s wrist as he passes. “Shower,” Crowley grunts, brushing past.

Aziraphale watches the swing of his hips as he leaves and feels a very familiar swell of desire, but Crowley made it clear the night before—in actions if not so much in words—that he needs things to go slower this time around. He'd stopped Aziraphale's questing hands and the desperate touches between them became light kisses. It still felt wonderful, but Aziraphale wants...well, Aziraphale could go slow. He was an angel who for nearly 6000 years had never felt a single drop of lust. It isn’t his fault he fell in love like this.

Crowley returns much faster than Aziraphale thought he would, catching him in the act of digging through Crowley’s cupboards.

“Looking for something?” Crowley asks, coiffed and buttoned up and still in his sunglasses. Aziraphale wonders if he’d remove them if Aziraphale asked politely.

“Do you have any tea?” Aziraphale asks. When he had gone into the kitchen, he was more just trying to find something to do with his hands and making tea had seemed as good an activity as any. 

Crowley snaps his fingers and a cup and saucer appear on the white marble worktop, the blue willow china standing out against the swirling surface. Raising an eyebrow, Crowley gestures for him to take the tea and then half perches on one of his barstools.

Aziraphale takes a sip of the milky tea. He doesn’t love miracled tea but he said he wanted it and he's not going to toss it now, not when Crowley looks strung tight as a poorly tuned violin. He waits for Crowley to speak but when nothing is forthcoming, he does what he knows best and chatters.

“Well, I know we discussed going on a trip yesterday and I would still very much like to do so. I understand if you need to wrap things up here but perhaps we could look into planning that. Do you have a preference of where we go? Somewhere warm?”

Crowley smiles at that and cocks his head. “It’s summer, Aziraphale. Most places are warm right now.”

“It’s winter in the south.” Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “Do you know how hemispheres work?”

“Do I know how hemispheres work?” Crowley asks, gesturing at himself like he’s mortally offended. “Of course I know how hemispheres work.”

Aziraphale shakes his head fondly and leans over the counter to kiss him because he can. He realizes Crowley doesn’t smell like lavender anymore, rather something crisp like sandalwood. He wonders if he can convince Crowley to start using lavender soap.

Though perhaps that would bring back bad memories.

Crowley humphs into the kiss and then his mouth softens under Aziraphale’s. It’s absolutely thrilling, feeling that again, but Aziraphale pulls back before he can get carried away. 

“Do you know, my dear,” he begins, not even sure what he’s going to say but feeling overwhelmed enough that he wants to say something, “you have the loveliest eyes and I wish you’d let me see them more.”

Crowley’s eyebrows make an appearance above the rims of his sunglasses and then he leans forward to prop his chin on his hand. “Really. My eyes. That’s what does it for you?”

“_Y__ou _ do it for me. If we’re being crass,” Aziraphale says. Crowley can tease all he likes. Aziraphale’s gotten a great deal better over the years at this game of playful insults that Crowley likes. He finds he enjoys it more often than not.

“What about me? Hm?” Crowley asks, jutting out his hips seductively and letting the barstool swivel behind him emphasizing the circles of his body. He looks every inch the snake.

“Crowley, if you want to play this game, I’m certain I will win,” Aziraphale informs him, ignoring the lewd way Crowley flicks his tongue behind his teeth. The demon is trying to get a rise out of him or deflect from Aziraphale’s attempt to show his honest feelings. 

“Oh will you?” 

“Oh I will,” Aziraphale says, reaching out to grasp Crowley’s hip and stop his incessant movements. “Let me make a list for you. All the things about you that _ do it _ for me to use your parlance.

“One, as I’ve said, your eyes are lovely. I’d liken them to the color of honeycomb and they make me think of springtime. Two, your hair. I love the way it’s always changing. Do you know I was sad when I saw you in Rome? You’d cut off all your curls. I hadn’t realized I was attached to them.”

Crowley makes a scoffing noise low in his throat and Aziraphale bites back a smile. He said he’d win and he feels fairly victorious at the moment.

“Three, your hips. There’s a lovely dip, right...here,” Aziraphale says, tracing the line of Crowley’s hip bone with his thumb. “It makes you look like a painting.”

“You look like a painting,” Crowley grumbles, fingers circling Aziraphale’s wrist and holding tight. 

Aziraphale hums, ignoring Crowley’s mockery. He’s very adorable when he’s flustered and it’s lovely to admit to himself that he feels that way. “I like the way your cheeks flush when I tease you.”

“A bloody lie,” Crowley says, wriggling away from Aziraphale and stepping into the dining room in a huff. “I don’t - blush!”

“Of course not, dear,” Aziraphale says, watching as Crowley tugs on his clothes to right them even though there isn’t a thread out of place. Staring at the wall, Crowley shakes his head and clears his throat.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks,

Crowley takes a deep breath and turns back to him. “I think you should go,” he says with great effort. He won’t look Aziraphale in the eye and it makes him feel a bit ill.

“Oh,” he says, putting his teacup down and bungling it so the hot liquid spills over the sides and onto the saucer.

“It’s not—look, I just need a little time,” Crowley says as he shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“Do you not want…” Aziraphale trails off, afraid to even say it. 

No!” Crowley says. “I—I want some time to think. Alright?”

Despite his nerves, Aziraphale nods. “Yes. Of course. All the time you need.”

It feels like a lie when he says it, the impatience already itching under his skin, but he needs to trust Crowley. There is a lot of pain between them. A lot of anxiety. And, cliche or no, time is said to heal all wounds.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and says, “I’ll be at the bookshop. When you’re ready.”

Crowley nods and finally looks up at him. It settles something in Aziraphale because that look feels like a promise.

**

Aziraphale takes himself back to his bookshop and wanders through the stacks, supposing that it’s high time he catalogue the books Adam restored to him. Many of them are the same but so many are new that Aziraphale knows it will take him quite a while. He’d been looking forward to it but with all the stress about the situation with Crowley, he’d put it out of his mind. Perhaps it will be a good distraction.

He starts by checking on his Shakespeare which seems to be mostly intact. Then his Marlowe and some of his older poetry. He’s missing some Byron but he’s never been too attached on that front. His more modern collection seems quite expanded and when he came to the New York School he found several copies of Frank O’Hara. He wonders if Adam had somehow intuited how deep his appreciation for the poet ran. What it meant to him.

Putting on the gramophone, he makes himself some cocoa. With Meditations in an Emergency in hand, he sets himself up in his chair and reads. It makes him miss Crowley something fierce, but he needs to respect Crowley’s requested distance. He supposes he understands. Based on their misunderstanding, it makes sense that Crowley would be hesitant to...well, to start over again. Sometimes Aziraphale feels as if he wants so much that it only makes sense for Crowley to ask him to stop, to wait.

He puts aside his book and sighs. It had been nice the night before, just holding each other. Aziraphale wants that again, his hands itch with it. He chastises himself. It has to be enough that Crowley is willing to forgive him.

The delicate strains of Liszt pour from the gramophone and Aziraphale puts aside his book. Perhaps he should focus on something else.

**

It takes a week before Crowley shows up on his doorstep, shuffling and sheepish and anxiety-ridden. 

“Looks good,” Crowley says once he swings inside and starts poking at the bookshelves like he’s already noticed Aziraphale has rearranged. 

He seems prickly as he picks up book after book and replaces it where it came from, shoulders up by his ears and mouth forming a thin line.

Eventually, all his shifting becomes too much and Aziraphale breaks. “Can you put the blasted books down and come here?”

Crowley’s head snaps up and his shoulders creep ever higher.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale says hurriedly, embarrassed by his outburst. Crowley is clearly already anxious and he shouldn't be making it _worse_. “You’re making me nervous. Please come here. I’d like to hold you.”

Still awkward, Crowley hesitantly steps closer to Aziraphale and allows him to pull him into a hug. 

“We never did this enough,” Aziraphale says into his shoulder as the tension slowly seeps out of Crowley’s body. He wishes they had touched more, back at the cottage as Nanny and Francis. Their bouts of affection had quickly become hurried and distant even when all Aziraphale had really wanted was to hold Crowley close and make him feel loved. 

When they pull apart, Crowley stays close which Aziraphale can only think is a good thing. “Are you feeling better, my dear?”

Crowley shrugs. 

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement,” Aziraphale says with an awkward laugh. “Do you think perhaps you can explain it to me? Then we can figure it out together.”

Crowley’s eyebrows furrow, an angry fold making an appearance between them. “I hate feelings,” he spits like it's a filthy word, striding past Aziraphale and flopping down on the couch behind the shelves.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, trailing after and taking the seat next to him. Looking at him as if he had betrayed him by sitting so close, Crowley stuffs his feet into Aziraphale’s lap. He takes the abuse calmly, and rests his hands on Crowley’s ankles. “However,” Aziraphale says meaningfully, holding Crowley’s feet still where he is now trying to tug them away. “That doesn’t mean you don't have them.”

Crowley glares at him.

“Could you perhaps remove your sunglasses for this conversation?” Aziraphale asks politely. He runs his thumb under the hem of Crowley’s trousers so he can rest it on the bare skin of his shin. Crowley takes off his glasses carefully.

“Better?” he sneers.

“Much better,” Aziraphale confirms and Crowley rolls his eyes. 

They sit there for a long time, Aziraphale’s hands rested on Crowley’s shins, the steady play of his thumb over the barest hint of skin. The clock by Aziraphale’s desk ticks quietly and Crowley lets out a long breath.

“You said something about traveling?”

Aziraphale stops moving his thumb and tries to follow the thread of Crowley’s thoughts. Narrowing his eyes, Crowley repeats slowly, “Traveling? Last week, you said you wanted to go on a trip.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “The entire purpose of such a trip would be to be together. We can do that as well here as in France or Italy.”

Crowley hums and closes his eyes, letting his head tip back against the arm of the sofa. It looks to be a very uncomfortable angle so Aziraphale miracles a cushion under his neck. Crowley grunts in surprise and then nuzzles deeper into the couch. A light buzzing distracts both of them and Crowley starts, shoving his hand into his pocket and extracting his mobile phone.

He looks down at the screen and then lets out an amused snort. Aziraphale cocks his head so Crowley pushes his phone into his hand. The screen is open to a text message thread from Warlock.

_ W: I think i met the frog man you used to tell me bedtime stories about _

Attached is a photo of a very pale man with wild white hair that Aziraphale vaguely recognizes from his jaunt in Hell. 

_ W: He was just as stinky as you said_.

Crowley’s still grinning and it’s more relaxed than Aziraphale has seen him in a while and he wants to encourage it. “Frog man?” he asks, handing back the phone.

“Hastur,” Crowley says, tapping out a response. “Awful demon. Duke of Hell. Told Warlock loads of bunk about him.”

“Are you often in contact with Warlock?” Aziraphale asks carefully. He himself has not heard much from Warlock besides the occasional text message. Though he supposes it makes sense that Crowley would speak to him more often. Their relationship had been much closer than Francis’s and Warlock’s. 

Crowley shrugs, turning off his phone and slipping it back into his jacket pocket. “Sometimes. Seems to be doing alright. Glad we didn’t have to kill him you know.”

Aziraphale snorts and them finds himself surprised. He supposes he should be glad he can laugh at something so awful. “I very much agree.”

Crowley looks at him with a raised eyebrow and then starts laughing himself. He looks so joyful that Aziraphale wants to kiss him. Unfortunately, he’s on the other side of the couch with his legs in Aziraphale’s lap thoroughly preventing him from doing so. 

“Can I kiss you?” Aziraphale asks when Crowley finally stops laughing. The demon stills for a moment and then levers himself up, one hand behind him on the cushion to keep upright. 

They stare at each other for a moment. “Well, are you going to do it or not?” Crowley says darkly so Aziraphale grips his shins and leans over his knees to brush their mouths together. It sparks in his chest, the long held feeling of desire that Crowley has always stoked him in. The angle is awkward, but that doesn’t stop Aziraphale from reaching out and tugging Crowley closer until he’s half in Aziraphale’s lap, legs tucked up awkwardly. And yet he doesn’t complain which thrills Aziraphale right down to his toes.

He threads his fingers in the hair at the base of Crowley’s neck and holds him closer. Crowley’s nose, sharp and crooked, is pressed into his cheek as Aziraphale curls his tongue into Crowley’s mouth. He remembers the way Crowley loved when he swiped his tongue over his teeth, slow and languid, and sure enough, Crowley shudders against him, hands going to his shoulders and digging in like he’s trying to find purchase on _ something._ _A__nything_. 

“Is this alright, dear?” Aziraphale asks, pulling back just enough to kiss Crowley’s jaw, and then the spot under his neck that he knows will have Crowley moaning if he bites it just-so. He doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to push, but he aches with the knowledge that he _ could_.

Instead of answering, Crowley tucks his hands under Aziraphale’s jacket, winding them around his body and folding closer, head pressed into Aziraphale’s neck. “‘S nice,” Crowley says, slurring a bit, evidence enough that he’s as affected as Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale brings his arms up around Crowley and runs his hands down his back, the knobs of his spine pressing into his fingers, sharp and real. “I love you, darling,” Aziraphale says into the puff of Crowley’s hair where it’s tickling his nose. He’s in love with the fact that he can say it now and he can’t believe it took him so long. Every time it feels like a release of the pressure inside him. 

Crowley squeezes him tighter, forcing a little _oof_ from Aziraphale’s lungs. When he relents, Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “How about this? I’ll plan a holiday for us and before we go, I'll run it by you.”

Crowley grunts into his neck.

“Is that a yes?” Aziraphale asks, trying to be patient but mostly distracted by the bundle of Crowley in his lap that his body has a very _ particular _ reaction to.

“Fine,” Crowley says, petulant and hot over Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale idly wonders if he’s doing it on purpose to rile him up. He doubts Crowley would appreciate if Aziraphale dumped him onto his back and ravished him in the middle of the day with the bookshop unlocked and the sun streaming in through the skylight. Not with things still so uncertain between them.

“If you would be so kind as to get off of me, perhaps we could get lunch,” Aziraphale says, even though he’s loathe to have Crowley move away. His problem is becoming more evident and Crowley made it very clear that night in his flat that the burden of the first move should be on him. Aziraphale won’t push that.

He _ won’t_, he tells himself firmly as he hefts Crowley off his lap. “There’s a pub in a Mayfair I thought you’d like.”

Crowley is _ very _fond of fish and chips and Aziraphale has stalwartly never pointed it out because Crowley doesn’t like when Aziraphale notices him being fond of anything.

Crowley shrugs. “Whatever you’d like, angel.”

Crowley drives them back to his apartment in the Bentley and they walk together to the quaint little pub called _ The Waltzing Elephant _from there. It’s dingy and perfect and when they go inside the lighting casts the entire space in red which makes Crowley practically glow with pleasure. He does love his aesthetics.

Crowley does get the fish and chips and Aziraphales does _ not _ say anything. When Crowley eats, really eats, he gets this secretive look on his face, like he’s terribly pleased but no one should know. Well, Aziraphale knows and is _ delighted_. 

“What’re you looking at?” Crowley demands when he wipes his vinegary fingers on his napkin.

“You,” Aziraphale says frankly, tangling their feet together under the table, enjoying the way Crowley’s face contorts and then turns pink as he takes a sip of his water.

Bypassing the opportunity to tease Crowley—it takes a great deal of willpower—Aziraphale launches into discussing his work on cataloging the books in his shop. “I believe young Adam did away with a significant amount of my Byron, you know,” he says.

“Good. Byron was a tosser,” Crowley says, leaning back in his seat and raising one eyebrow as if to goad Aziraphale.

“He had literary merit!” Aziraphale protests. This is an old argument, but Aziraphale is happy to have it. Another sign that normalcy is within reach.

Crowley puts one forearm on the table and leans over, jabbing his finger at Aziraphale. “You always say that. But we both know you just liked when he called you handsome at Shelley’s party.”

Aziraphale blushes. He _ had _ liked that. “A man likes to be appreciated,” Aziraphale says, purposefully coquettish.

Crowley groans dramatically and kicks at his leg.

“You are a _ child_,” Aziraphale says but he reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand where it’s laying flat on the table. Crowley stares down at it like Aziraphale has handed him a dead bird, forcing Aziraphale to hold his ground. 

The waitress stops by with the check and Crowley tries to pull away weakly, but Aziraphale holds on, rubbing his thumb over the back of Crowley’s knuckles. The waitress glances at their joined hands and then smiles brightly. 

They pay and walk back to Crowley’s flat, and Crowley takes _his_ hand, the simple gesture making Aziraphale feel effervescent and full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more to come!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no andrew lloyd webbers were harmed in the making of this chapter

Crowley feels...well, Crowley _ feels _ and that seems a bit unacceptable at this point. He’s spent _ years _ feeling and, quite frankly, that should be enough. He ought to lodge a complaint.

Not that there was anyone to listen.

However, with Aziraphale quietly munching on biscuits on his sofa, Crowley’s chest feels like it’s expanding with every second, full of glowing bubbles and light. Can he discorporate from emotions? Surely he would have done so by now.

It’s been two weeks since Aziraphale’s heartfelt confession. Two weeks since Crowley's anger had started to ebb away and they began to try to be in each other's lives again.

They’d spent most of their time together, alternating between the bookshop and Crowley’s flat because Aziraphale said something about _ fairness _ and _ equitable relationships_. _ I’ve been reading a book about trust in long term relationships, Crowley, and I think it would be best if_…

Crowley huffs in his chair and crosses his legs, bouncing it on his knee as he tries to release some of the pent up energy coiling around his bones. What he needs is a project. He doesn’t really want to do anything demonic—he’s been enjoying the little things like curdling the milk in Tesco and doesn’t feel like going all out on something that doesn’t feel quite as satisfying as it used to. Maybe he could redecorate his apartment. Or needle Aziraphale until he lets him reorganize the bookshop. He thinks that last one might be a lost cause.

Aziraphale looks up from the book he’s somehow managed to dig up from somewhere in Crowley’s flat. “Are you alright?” he asks, brow furrowing. He has crumbs on his shirt and Crowley wants to say something cutting about it because maybe if he does he’ll feel some relief from this buzzing under his skin.

“Of course I am,” Crowley says, scowling. He sinks deeper into his chair and redirects his attention to the television where he’s queued up some show he has absolutely no investment in. 

“I can practically hear you thinking, my dear,” Aziraphale says, putting aside his book and folding his hands in his lap. Very performatively patient. Crowley wants to throw the remote at him. How can he be so calm?

“Perhaps we should go on a walk,” Aziraphale says, standing up and looking down at himself with a small frown. He brushes the crumbs away and then miracles them from existence. “I think you’re getting a bit peaky.”

Aziraphale loves dragging him out on walks, usually citing Crowley’s foul temper or the need for fresh air. It was something they did at the Dowling’s as well and, as loathe as he is to admit it, walking about outside with Aziraphale by his side does do something to settle Crowley’s nerves. So Crowley groans, but pours himself out of his chair and slumps after Aziraphale, snapping his fingers to summon his coat. It’s getting chilly as the weather turns and Crowley _ hates _ being cold_. _Aziraphale stops him as he moves to the door and a soft, gray scarf is being wound around his neck, the texture delicious against the sensitive skin of his throat. 

“Can’t have you getting cold,” Aziraphale says, as if reading his mind, patting his chest and giving him a blindingly affectionate smile. 

Crowley stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his thick jacket and looks away. “Very dashing,” Aziraphale says, tugging on the end of the scarf before stepping away and donning his own camel hair coat.

“Come along, darling,” Aziraphale says after he stands in the doorway for a moment, flapping his hand for Crowley to move and Crowley realizes he’s been frozen to the spot for far too long, caught up in Aziraphale’s casual affection.

The go downstairs and Crowley takes Aziraphale’s arm—it will help him stay warm! No other soppy, romantic reason!—and they walk to the park to feed the ducks. Aziraphale has recently found out that all the bread they have fed them had, in fact, been bad for their digestion and has insisted they switch to peas. Crowley doesn’t give two figs about a duck’s digestion, but when Aziraphale sets his mind to something, it isn’t as if Crowley can do anything to change it.

It’s a long brisk walk to the park, but Crowley finds he doesn’t mind. Aziraphale natters on beside him about the book he’s currently reading, some modern thing Crowley’s surprised he was even willing to pick up, and Crowley admits to himself how nice it is to be outside, the cool weather nipping at his face and helping him focus on something else beside his rapid thoughts.

Maybe Aziraphale was right and a holiday was what they needed. He wonders how Aziraphale's doing in planning the whole thing.

When they come to the pond, Crowley has a flash of memory. A fight about holy water, Aziraphale’s horrified expression. _ Fraternizing. _ He drops Aziraphale’s arm and summons a handful of peas to distract himself. He doesn’t want to be lingering on memories like that. He does it often enough when he’s alone. Aziraphale is here and they have forgiven each other and this is a _ real _ thing, not some farce devised in a cottage because the world is ending and they are both lying to themselves.

“I’m sorry about it, you know,” Aziraphale says, tossing a pea into the water by the nearest duck who snatches it up and fluffs its feathers, looking as pleased as a duck can look. 

Crowley tries to look at him out of the corner of his eye, but the edges of his sunglasses prevent it so he’s forced to stare ahead like a horse with blinders, trying to focus on what’s in front of him. “What about?”

He tosses several peas in the water and smiles to himself when three ducks fight over the bounty. Vicious things, ducks.

“The holy water. Among other things,” Aziraphale says and Crowley does turn his head to look at him. His mouth is turned down, eyebrows drawn together, a surefire sign that he is serious. He glances at Crowley. “I believe I was very unkind that day.”

Crowley turns back to the water and shrugs. He decides to say what he thought about a great deal in between his long periods of sleep after their fight. “I think I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. Could’ve...I dunno. Eased you into the idea.”

Aziraphale shuffles closer and presses their arms together. “That’s very nice of you to say, but I think perhaps you were right. It was a dangerous thing to ask and it would have been difficult to talk about it elsewhere. I missed you terribly afterward. It seems quite ridiculous now. That I didn’t realize I was in love with you right then and there.”

“You’ve always been a bit dense,” Crowley says quietly and Aziraphale elbows him in the ribs.

“You’re awfully rude, you know,” Aziraphale says, stepping away from him with a sniff. Crowley grins. It’s one of their games, Aziraphale stepping back and Crowley circling him, teasing him. It was always like that before. Before…

They’re working on it.

“Oh, you like when I’m rude though,” Crowley says, engaging in their little dance by tossing the rest of the peas into the water and stepping around Aziraphale. “Impolite. Uncouth. You _ love _it,” he whispers into Aziraphale’s ear, his own heart racing because for some reason this teasing feels like a risk. Can he say things like this? How will Aziraphale react?

If they were back at the cottage, he would have stepped away, blushing and flustered. Crowley hopes that it will be different now. 

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Aziraphale says, tilting his head towards him, small smile over the cupid’s bow of his mouth. Crowley feels a wild, hungry thing inside him, desperate to get close to Aziraphale. It recedes when Aziraphale adds, “But you can think so if it pleases you.”

Crowley huffs and then finds another bunch of peas miracled into his hands. He hadn’t done that.

Aziraphale nods toward the pond. “The ducks are still hungry, Crowley. Focus.”

So they feed the ducks for a bit longer and when Aziraphale starts talking again, this time about the _ Cats _ revival that he hates that he wants to see, Crowley joins in a bit more. When he makes fun of Aziraphale’s love-hate relationship with Andrew Lloyd Webber—Crowley thinks he’s awful and he’s been to far too many showing of _ Phantom of the Opera _ because Azirphale had wanted to see ‘what they would do with it.’ So far nothing new—Aziraphale counters with his firm knowledge that Crowley cries during “Music of the Night” which was _just_ _one time_. He’d had a hard week!

They end up walking back to Aziraphale’s bookshop without even discussing the destination, bickering about whether or not T.S. Eliot would have appreciated the nightmare that is _ Cats the Musical_. 

And maybe it’s because Aziraphale’s a bit pink in the face when they reach the stoop of the bookshop, hands fluttering from his waistcoat to the pockets of his coat and back again like he’s nervous. Or maybe it’s because Crowley can only hold himself back for so long when he thinks Aziraphale is being absolutely ridiculous and it makes his stomach do crazy things. But Crowley finds himself falling into the bookshop, pressing desperate kisses against Aziraphale’s mouth and feeling like he has to be closer or he well and truly will discorporate.

Aziraphale is making all sorts of surprised and pleased sounds, doing his best to shut the door behind them but failing, so Crowley kicks it with his foot which creates an unfortunate change in their center of gravity and sends them both tumbling to the floor. 

Aziraphale makes an adorable squeaking noise that Crowley doesn’t think he could replicate if he tried and Crowley tumbles to the side to avoid spearing him with what Aziraphale has often referred to as his _ painfully bony elbows_. He ends up slamming into the side of one of the bookcases which shakes precariously as he finds the wind knocked out of him.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Aziraphale looks down at Crowley and bites his lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “What was that for?”

Crowley flops onto his back and tries to pull air into his lungs. “Go ahead. Laugh. You know you want to.”

Aziraphale snickers and Crowley kicks at him halfheartedly, too far away to even make contact. “Was that you trying to be smooth?”

“No,” Crowley says with a scowl, levering himself up to sit against the bookshelf. Aziraphale really should reinforce these. It’s one thing to keep books from centuries ago, but one really should update the infrastructure.

“Have you ever thought about updating your bookshop?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale looks at him agog from where he’s still half sprawled on the ground. Crowley’s gaze falls to Aziraphale’s thighs where they are splayed across the faded red patterned rug, trousers straining around them. Crowley remembers how they felt under his hands, the way the dark blonde hair dragged under his tongue as he bit his way up Aziraphale’s inner thighs and felt their softness beneath his fingers. It dawns on him that it’s not Aziraphale’s thighs he knows. It’s Francis’s. He clears his throat and forces himself to look Aziraphale in the face.

“Why ever would I do that?” Aziraphale asks, sounding personally offended.

“I think this bookshelf is about one ill wind away from collapse,” Crowley says. He pokes at the shelf to demonstrate and it wobbles again. “You’d think Adam would have taken care of that.”

Aziraphale lets out an irritated growl that makes Crowley’s knees feel strange and he’s very thankful he’s still on the floor or else he’s pretty certain he would have ended up there again. “Do you know I actually think he made some of them worse? I don’t think that young man knows anything about bookshops. They’re not all ancient, dusty things.”

“To be fair, yours _ is _ an ancient, dusty thing.”

Aziraphale glares at him and then pushes himself to his feet. “If you keep saying things like that, I’ll lock you out.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Crowley says with exaggerated horror and Aziraphale breaks into a smile.

“Perhaps you’re right. Everything would be dreadfully dull without you.” He offers Crowley his hand to help him stand and Crowley takes it. Aziraphale’s hands are smooth, Francis’s calluses long gone. 

When Crowley stands, Aziraphale tugs him close and kisses him again, soft and tasting of lemon drops. He wonders if Aziraphale snuck one on their walk home, the thought flashing through his mind before being swiftly chased away by the spine melting way Aziraphale shifts his mouth against Crowley’s. Growing hot in his coat and scarf, Crowley tries to tug on his own buttons but fumbles terribly, distracted as he is. Aziraphale smiles against his mouth and then pulls back which had not at all been Crowley intention.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve quite forgotten you were still all bundled. Let’s get you out of your coat,” Aziraphale says, hands already dancing over Crowley’s front and then pausing. “If you’re going to stay that is. Of course, you don’t have to.”

Crowley nods numbly, lips feeling kiss roughened, and shrugs out of his coat, tossing it onto the coat rack and then trying to kiss Aziraphale again. The bastard laughs and ducks away from him. “Just a moment,” he says, carefully removing his own coat and hanging it up with the same careful attention that he gives everything. 

When he turns back, Crowley can see the pink patches of his cheeks and the way he’s biting his lip like he wants to say something. Instead of tugging him back into an embrace, Crowley waits.

“Would you like to stay for a bit?” Aziraphale asks, shuffling forward minutely. Crowley holds his ground even though his first instinct is to step back as well.

“Thought I was,” Crowley says. He will _ not _ put his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable as he is.

Aziraphale takes another step forward. “I was hoping that we could…”

Crowley’s mind darts over all the things they _ could _ do that mostly involve images of white sheets dotted with pink flowers. He ignores those possibilities because of the way his heart _ hurts _ at the mere idea. He at the very least knows it would be a bad to push through that sort of pain just so he can feel...feel like Aziraphale wants him. He knows Aziraphale does. That has to be enough for now.

“...that we could go over my proposal for a holiday,” Aziraphale finishes with one of his tiny satisfied wiggles and Crowley realizes his mouth is open. He clamps it shut and grits his teeth.

“Lead the way oh, intrepid adventurer,” Crowley says with an overdramatic bow. Aziraphale snorts at his antics and brushes past. With a snap of his fingers, he turns on the gramophone and Ella Fitzgerald pours out.

_ Your looks are laughable, unphotographable _

Crowley stares at the rotating record and feels his blood roar in his ears. He remembers climbing into Aziraphale’s lap in the cottage. They’d kissed for hours and then ended up on the floor in front of the fireplace, Aziraphale on top of him, rolling his hips slowly and steadily, the rise of his blushing chest mesmerizing as Crowley pushed up to meet him. He’d made these noises like Crowley was carving into him and at the time, Crowley had viciously relished in it. This song had played as Aziraphale had finally come apart, gasping and painfully beautiful.

_ You don’t love me but you’ll remember this_.

Aziraphale scrambles to turn off the record. His happy pink face has reddened with embarrassment and he turns his back to Crowley to find another record. “I suppose you’re, erm, thinking about—”

“What bloody else am I going to think about?” Crowley snaps and then regrets it. He wants to be better but this is who he is. A secret part of him hopes that now, with the threat of the Apocalypse gone, and with Aziraphale by his side, the anger inside him will settle and he’ll no longer feel like silt at the bottom of a river, stirred up at every turn.

Aziraphale sets up the Ink Spots and lets the record spin, taking a shuddering breath before turning back to Crowley. “It’s a lovely memory. I’d love for it to be a good one too.”

Crowley rubs at his chest but it does nothing to relieve the ache there. 

Aziraphale steps up to him and takes his hand, pulling him close as he wraps one arms around his back. They’re not dancing, but they’re holding each other and swaying slightly. It feels romantic and the ache eases a little.

“I saw your hurt all the time, you know,” Aziraphale says, hooking his chin over Crowley’s shoulder as he presses somehow closer. “I thought you were bored or angry. Or that’s what I told myself. I was so terrified of wanting you and what it would mean if I lost you.”

Crowley hums into his hair, breathing in his smell, peppermint and cocoa. It’s not quite like Francis who always smelled like fresh cut grass, but the sharp peppermint is familiar and grounds him. “You won’t,” Crowley says after a few moments. “You won’t lose me.”

“It’s worth the risk either way, darling,” Aziraphale says, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “As awful as it was, the apocalypse helped me realize that.”

Crowley feels the words rise up in him—_I love you—_but then the spike of fear that follows is enough to destroy them before they can escape. 

“I’m so thankful we are both here, alive and together,” Aziraphale says like maybe he feels the same way Crowley does. Overwhelmed. As the song draws to a close, he steps away. “Come along. We can discuss that holiday of ours.”

Crowley lets Aziraphale take his hand and lead him to their little nook in the back of the bookshop. The chill of the fall day has started to seep into the drafty building so Crowley takes to the couch and wraps himself in the blanket draped over the back, not missing the affectionate look that Aziraphale throws him before he takes a seat as his desk and rifles through his papers.

“I don’t see why you don’t just use a computer like a normal person,” Crowley says as Aziraphale scowls and puts down a few pages only to pick them up again and peer at them like he’s not sure what purpose they serve.

“I use a computer!” Aziraphale protests, hands falling to the desk as he looks at Crowley, affronted.

“You can plan things on the computer. Put all your documents in one place and all. Make an itinerary,” Corwley points out. He tucks up his legs under him and pulls the blanket tight about his shoulders. 

Aziraphale makes a disgruntled noise and picks up all his papers before taking a seat next to Crowley on the couch. “Technology is all well and good but nothing is better than good old fashioned paper.”

Crowley rolls his eyes but is distracted from his exasperation when Aziraphale leans into him and puts a piece of paper in his lap to walk him through the plan.

“So, I was thinking we could drive down to Dover, stay for a few days, see the sights, and then cross the channel and go to Calais. I looked it up _ online_,” Aziraphale says meaningfully, teasing Crowley for his earlier judgment, “and found out that shop we went to years ago is still open. I’m sure it’s changed owners but I'd like to try it. If I recall you were fond of the goat cheese and fig sandwiches.

Crowley scowls, trying to remember the meal Aziraphale is talking about. The angel catalogues food like an accountant keeping a ledger. He thinks that if Aziraphale had the energy he would write little reviews of every meal and store it somewhere for future reference. 

For all he knows, Aziraphale does.

“Hate to break it to you, angel, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley says, leaning against the arm of the sofa and sticking his feet under Aziraphale’s thigh where they immediately start to warm. Yelping at the intrusion, Aziraphale casts him a fond yet exasperated glare.

“Well, if you go to the shop then you can try the fig and goat cheese and _ remember _ that you liked it,” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows at Crowley as if to say, _ you know I’m right. _

He probably is if Crowley's honest with himself. But he feels like being contrary so he says, "I doubt I ever liked goat cheese. Maybe it was you who liked the sandwich."

Aziraphale makes a note on the paper in his lap and ignores him. "It might be a bit brisk in France so if you’d rather go somewhere warmer…"

Crowley pictures long walks with Aziraphale on the beaches in Dover, getting cold and then going back to some little place where they're staying, fire lit and warming the whole room. It sounds...nice.

So he says so and Aziraphale beams at him. “Well, that’s settled then.”

Crowley supposes that it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like slice of life romance fics where we alternate between character povs so thats what we'll be seeing here!  
the song referenced in this chapter is My Funny Valentine as performed by Ella Fitzgerald. I think it's a very Francis song.  
and while I don't reference the lyrics i like to think I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire by the Ink Spots is the song that's playing while they dance


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'ed

Aziraphale has come to a conclusion. And that conclusion is that Crowley is desperately in love with him and terrified. It seems like that should have been an obvious conclusion given their history but Aziraphale can admit to himself that their years together had muddied the waters for him somewhat.

But now? Aziraphale sees his fear in everything he does. The way he walks into the bookshop, shoulders tight and trying to act nonchalant. The way he tenses when Aziraphale touches him without warning.

The way he kisses. Like it might be the last time. 

Aziraphale is working very hard to make sure he stops feeling that way. What he tells himself, whenever Crowley does something like close his eyes and frown when Aziraphale tries to say that he loves him, is that it has only been a month since Aziraphale apologized. It has only been a month since Aziraphale decided to truly work on this thing between them. Since they both decided. 

So Aziraphale reads books and watches irritating videos on some internet site called YouTube that help explain the situation to him. They all say the same thing. Listen, pay attention, communicate. And he tries. He really does. He’s just waiting for Crowley to meet him halfway.

And sometimes he does. He talks about things that Aziraphale can tell hurt him, memories from their time at the Dowling’s, and even before. Aziraphale had no idea how much he had pained Crowley. He tries not to blame himself too much. They hurt each other. It wasn’t entirely one-sided.

The day before they are set to leave for their holiday, Aziraphale calls Crowley to confirm their plans. He tries to keep in touch with demon about these sort of things.

Crowley doesn’t answer and the answering machine beeps. “Hello darling,” Aziraphale says, pushing through his nerves, He still hates leaving messages. “I wasn’t sure if you were planning on stopping by the shop today, but I’d like to plan our itinerary for tomorrow so if you get this message please call me.”

He hangs up the phone and lets out a long breath.

The bell tinkles and Aziraphale looks up to see Crowley striding through the door, distracted by something on his phone.

“Hey angel,” he calls out and then he looks up, surprised to see Aziraphale so close to the door. “Oh, hey.”

Crowley’s mouth does something that makes Aziraphale want to lock the bookshop and kiss him into the next day, like his tongue is catching something he wants to say and keeping it trapped behind his teeth. “How are - how are you?”

“Quite well. Pleased to see you, as always,” Aziraphale says, coming around the table between him and Crowley to press a kiss to his cheek. Crowley’s hand comes up to his elbow and holds him in place for a moment as if he’s not ready for Aziraphale to pull away.

Then he retreats, looking back down at his phone. “Did you know some snot-nosed kid is bullying Warlock?” Crowley says and then taps out a text.

Alarm bells ring in Aziraphale’s head and he narrows his eyes at Crowley. “What are you telling him to do?”

Crowley doesn’t reply.

“Crowley, please, he is _ not _ the antichrist and should not do whatever demonic thing you are encouraging at this very moment,” Aziraphale says, trying to take the phone from Crowley’s hand.

Crowley smacks his hand away and slips his phone into his pocket. “If he wanted angelic advice, he’d be texting Francis wouldn’t he, angel? He needs Nanny right now.”

Aziraphale groans. “Please do not corrupt the poor boy more than you already have,” he says but he’s already turning around and leading Crowley to the sofa in the back. “So, are you packed?”

It’s Crowley’s turn to groan as he flops himself down on the couch. “Angel, I don’t need to pack. _ You _don’t need to pack.”

Ignoring him, Aziraphale takes out the list he made and goes down it. “I’m bringing several bottles of scotch. A few bottles of wine - we’ll be in France so I’m sure we’ll be able to pick some up -”

“Are you only packing booze?” Crowley asks, one eyebrow up, fingers tapping out a rhythm on his knee. Aziraphale recognizes it as a nervous gesture and wonders what he should do. Ask after Crowley’s feelings? He didn’t think the demon would like that very much, but Aziraphale also knows that some discomfort is necessary in this slow rebuilding that they are working through.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says, deciding on trying to maintain a light air, perhaps to keep Crowley from delving too far into whatever anxiety is surely rocketing through his mind. “I’m also bringing my favorite dressing gown and a few snacks.”

He’s also packed several books and a few board games. But those are a secret because Crowley says he _ hates _ board games but Aziraphale knows better. What Crowley loves is to win, especially win against Aziraphale.

Crowley’s fingers falter and then return to the unsteady rhythm which causes Aziraphale to break. “My dear, are you alright?” he asks and he realizes he wants to pull Crowley from his side of the sofa as close as possible, to feel him breathing and near.

“Peachy,” Crowley says, each syllable sharper than a knife’s edge. “What’s got you in a tizzy?”

Aziraphale moves closer to Crowley and lays a delicate hand over his dancing fingers. “Please, I can tell you’re anxious about something. I’d like to help. Or at the very least, listen.”

Crowley’s chin tips up defiantly and Aziraphale thinks he might be in for a fight, but then he deflates. “We’re going to be alone.”

Aziraphale doesn’t understand. “We’re alone right now.”

In fact, they are frequently alone. They always have been.

“Yeah, but,” Crowley breaks off and groans before making a complicated series of noises like he’s trying out different words and finding them all unsatisfying. “Alone _ right now, _ but we both know I’m going to get up and leave before the day’s out and you’ll be back to your books and I’ll be back to my flat. We’ll be alone. Nowhere to go to be _ alone_."

“So what you really mean,” Aziraphale begins, ignoring the hurt that licks at his heart like a guttering flame. “Is that we will always be together.”

“Same thing,” Crowley says dismissively and Aziraphale has the wild impulse to yell which he tries very reasonably to set aside.

“Could we perhaps have a serious conversation for a moment?” Aziraphale says coolly, voice crisp as he can make it. 

“Aren’t we already having a serious conversation?” Crowley sneers and it makes Aziraphale snap.

“We are not and you know it. You can’t just throw these things at me like they don’t hurt me too,” Aziraphale says, fisting his hands in his lap.

Crowley was baring his teeth but at Aziraphale’s words his face falls into a frown and he starts twitching like he wants to reach out but also stand up or maybe run away. 

Aziraphale gets a hold on himself and says, “It’s perfectly alright if you do not want to go on this holiday. I’m happy to cancel the arrangements if you prefer.”

And he is. Blast it all, Aziraphale is willing to do whatever needs doing in order for Crowley to be comfortable. He can’t wish away their history, and he wouldn’t if he could, so he has to put in this effort, this consideration because they are _ working _ towards something. Towards that good thing they used to have before it got all twisted up. 

Crowley’s face crumples at Aziraphale’s forcefully even tone and he looks at his knees before tossing his head back and groaning. It’s dramatic but Aziraphale hears a thread of honest emotion in it so he waits for Crowley to say whatever he’s building up to.

“I’m being an arse, aren’t I?” Crowley says finally. It’s said like he doesn’t care at all that he has, in fact, hurt Aziraphale’s feelings and that prickles at Aziraphale’s skin.

“Yes,” he says frankly. Because Crowley _ is _ being an arse and honesty goes both ways.

At that, Crowley turns to face him and all the wry sarcasm flows out of his posture. “I am sorry, you know,” he says, body completely still for the first time since he walked into Aziraphale’s shop.

It makes the writhing anger in Aziraphale’s belly calm and settle. 

“And I do want to go on holiday. I mean when was the last time you went anywhere for fun?”

Aziraphale sighs at that. He honestly doesn’t know. “Perhaps a century. Probably longer.”

“Right?” Crowley cries, some of his manic energy returning but Aziraphale heads it off before it can grow into something uncontainable.

“You know that you can always take time for yourself,” he says quickly, before he loses his nerve. He wants to let know Crowley that he is safe to take off, disappear, be alone. Of course, he’d like to know before Crowley does that, but he also knows Crowley can be a bit forgetful, a bit flighty. Honestly, Aziraphale finds it awfully endearing.

Crowley cocks his head slowly, a snake considering an offering. “Yeah, alright. You too.”

Aziraphale nods and together, they turn back to the itinerary Aziraphale has planned out. 

* * *

The drive to Dover is punctuated by the Bentley’s incessant need to click the radio on whenever it pleases and play some truly ghastly music that Aziraphale vaguely recognizes.

Crowley apologizes every time. “Sorry, sorry,” he says as he clicks the radio off again. 

“It’s quite alright,” Aziraphale says - every time - looking out the window at the passing cars. Crowley is driving far too fast, but Aziraphale has limited himself to one comment every half hour and at this point they’re nearly there, Crowley cutting the two hour drive almost in half.

They arrive at the little guest house Aziraphale reserved for the week, Crowley pulling into the tiny driveway and cutting the engine just as the radio clicks on once more. He scowls at it, the curl of his mouth adorable and hilarious in equal parts. 

“I don’t suppose you could get that fixed?” Aziraphale asks before opening the door.

“You don’t think I’ve tried?”

Aziraphale shakes his head fondly and gathers his things. The house has a quaint yard with a small table that he hopes Crowley will enjoy sitting at while he drinks his coffee in the morning. He picked this place because it’s close to the shore, but has pretty things that he knows Crowley will like. Aziraphale is fond of warm colors and soft things and as much as Crowley keeps to his spartan living, Aziraphale knows he appreciates those soft things too. Well, if the way he hoards Aziraphale’s thick tartan blanket at the bookshop is any indication. 

Crowley picks up the second suitcase and follows Aziraphale through the small garden, looking over the garden with a keen eye. “Nice place,” he says while Aziraphale punches a code into a lockbox to get the key.

“I’m glad you think so,” he replies once he has his bounty and unlocks the door. The house is small and just as quaint as the garden outside, the door opening into a small living room decorated in light blues and grays, a few nautical themed items scattered throughout. 

Crowley drifts to the fireplace and fiddles with the grate. “I was hoping there’d be a fireplace,” he mumbles to himself before turning back to Aziraphale expectantly.

This is the part that Aziraphale hopes Crowley will appreciate the most. Aziraphale had looked at a myriad of hotels and guest houses, but this was the first he found that wasn’t garishly large and also had two bedrooms. One bedroom would have been awfully presumptuous. “I believe there’s a downstairs bedroom and the upper floor is a sort of loft,” Aziraphale says, already moving with his suitcase to the lower bedroom. “I imagine you’d prefer the loft.”

Crowley makes an inquisitive noise so Aziraphale explains, “More sunlight, my dear.”

“Right,” Crowley says, jamming his hands into his too small pockets before coming around the baby blue sofa and brushing past Aziraphale to move towards the stairs. He pauses at the foot of them and looks back at Aziraphale. “Are you coming?”

Aziraphale places his suitcase by the couch and lets Crowley lead him up the stairs. Sure enough, the staircase opens into a wide room with a slanting ceiling, a large window on one wall and a skylight that brightens the entire room, beige carpets and all.

“Oh this is nice,” Crowley says, tossing himself on the bed and squirming his way up the blanket until his head hits the pillow. The large windows allow for a bit of chill to seep in through the glass but Aziraphale spies a space heater in the corner of the room that he’s certain will see some use during the upcoming week.

Aziraphale folds his hands in front of him. He’s very pleased that Crowley’s already enjoying himself, that he’s been allowed to take care of Crowley like this. It’s what he’s always wanted really. 

“I suppose I’ll go get settled downstairs,” Aziraphale says, smiling to himself. He’s certain if he leaves Crowley up here that the serpent will fall asleep. He does so love his naps. And this is a holiday after all.

Crowley rises up on his elbows to look at Aziraphale with a frown. “Downstairs? Why wouldn’t we share?”

The phrase strikes Aziraphale like a bolt of lightning. It’s what Crowley had said to him before, at the Dowling’s when Aziraphale was terrified of showing his feelings, of becoming even more enamored of Crowley and his easy affection. 

Some of his anxiety must show on his face because Crowley is off the bed in a flash and Aziraphale finds himself engulfed in a rather bony - but very tight - hug. 

“We don’t have to,” Crowley says into his neck as Aziraphale adjusts to return the embrace.

“No,” Aziraphale replies, a little shaky. “You just surprised me I suppose. All that talk of needing separate space, I simply assumed -”

Crowley makes a little displeased grunt as if to say _ stop that, you’re being silly _. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Aziraphale isn’t sure how to respond to that so he hugs Crowley tighter for a moment before pulling away. “Let’s see the rest of the house, hm?”

Together they poke through the other rooms, a small galley kitchen with seemingly endless cupboards connected to a breakfast nook with a formica table that has seen better days, two rather cramped bathrooms on the first floor, and an all seasons porch off the side of the house that affords a view of the sea.

Crowley leans against the wall of the kitchen and watches as Aziraphale puts away the handful of things he brought with him. He supposes they can go into town and pick up additional items if they need.

“You look happy, angel,” Crowley says, startling Aziraphale who was trying to decide if he should put his preferred tea in the cupboard with the biscuits or next to the electric kettle.

Aziraphale pauses and considers for a moment. “I am happy,” he says and he is. Tension between him and Crowley or no, he is thankful they are both alive, they are both free, and they are together. It’s more than he ever hoped for.

Crowley hums and pushes himself off the wall before moving closer to Aziraphale who feels his heart rate pick up. “I’d like to, er,” Crowley says, shifty. “That is…can I kiss you?”

Aziraphale breaks into a smile, heart going truly wild. “Absolutely. Always.”

So Crowley closes the distance and brushes their mouths together. It’s terribly arousing for such a brief kiss and Aziraphale would almost be embarrassed if he didn’t see the blush staining Crowley’s cheeks when he pulls away.

“Would you like to go down to the shore?” Aziraphale says, trying his best to keep his tone light. What he wants to do was spend the next hour or so thoroughly kissing Crowley in this tiny white kitchen, but he’s getting better at pushing those impulses away. Someday they would have that again, but for now, Aziraphale is delighted to spend time with him like this. Friends and then some.

Crowley gives him a crooked smile and it’s so genuine that Aziraphale wants to memorize it, keep it in his mind so he can bring it out later and show it to Crowley, to say _ look, you can be happy too_.

“That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

When they go down into the sand, Aziraphale removes his shoes because he wants to feel the fine grains between his toes. Crowley looks scandalized when he kicks them off, stuffing his socks inside. “What are you doing?”

“You could try it too, you know,” Aziraphale says, wiggling his toes into the sand. It tickles his arches and he laughs with the simple joy of it. 

Crowley grimaces so Aziraphale doesn’t press. They continue their way down to the water, walking a winding line among some of the washed up detritus from the sea. Occasionally, Crowley stops and retrieves some stone or shell, inspecting it before returning it to its place on the ground. 

“Haven’t been to the sea in ages,” he says, running his thumb over the back of a smooth stone and then handing it to Aziraphale who does the same. 

“It’s nice isn’t it? Peaceful,” Aziraphale observes, slipping the stone into the pocket of his trousers. 

Crowley hums thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything.

“I think I’m going to dip my toes in. Want to join?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley’s horrified expression is back.

“You’re going to stick your feet in the _ ocean _?”

Aziraphale laughs because it almost sounds like Crowley had never believed such a thing was even possible. “People do it all the time Crowley,” he says before bending down and rolling up the bottoms of his trousers.

While Crowley refuses to take off his shoes, he does follow him to the shore line where Aziraphale lets the tide run over his feet. At the first touch of the water he whoops and looks back at Crowley. “It’s cold!”

“Of course it’s cold! It’s the ocean!” Crowley says back, yelling to be heard over the steadily crashing waves.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale’s entire body is covered in gooseflesh so he retreats, letting the drier sand stick to his feet as he returns to Crowley’s side.

“Are you pleased with yourself?” Crowley asks, teasing him a bit which makes Aziraphale smile as he leans into him, feeling the low thrum of his warmth.

“Quite. It’s really very invigorating.”

Crowley grumbles about daft angels as they walk back to Aziraphale’s shoes where Aziraphale spares a small miracle to divest himself of sand before slipping back into his socks and oxfords. “What would you say to dinner?” he asks after he’s straightened up.

The sun has dropped low in the sky, round as an egg yolk as it drifts closer to the horizon and casting everything in orange and purple. Crowley gives him a long look and finally says, oddly serious, “I’d say I’d take you anywhere you want to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SLICE! OF! LIFE! 
> 
> DOMESTICITYYYYYY
> 
> (also yearning)
> 
> you can find me on tumblr [here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @alligatorsnbats

Crowley tosses and turns in the cloud-soft sheets, frustrated that he can’t get to sleep and that he can’t stop thinking about Aziraphale. He’d looked so terrified at the prospect of sharing a bed with Crowley again. He’d been an idiot to bring it up anyway. He shouldn’t have admitted he was afraid to be alone with Aziraphale in the first place. Even if it were true. Which it is. It’s just a stupid anxiety like so many of his other anxieties but Crowley’s trying to work through it.

He remembers sharing a bed for the first time at the Dowling’s before Aziraphale ran off and then came back to say...to say they had _ different feelings_. He doubts he’ll ever be able to forget the way his stomach went cold as Aziraphale looked at him, all soft concern like he wasn’t ripping Crowley’s heart out inch by inch.

It had just been a miscommunication.

It’s hard to remember that when the memory still makes him feel opened up and raw. 

He flops onto his back and stares at the moonlight filtering in through the skylight, casting the room a pale blue that seems specific to nighttime at the shore. They’d come back from dinner and settled into the living room. Aziraphale had read a book called _ The Shining _ out loud. Apparently, he’d selected according to Crowley’s preferences. Spooky he’d called it.

And it was spooky. Which Crowley had enjoyed a great deal. Aziraphale had seemed so happy just to read to him. But he was always happy these days. Crowley wished he could have that, wished he could reach out and hold just a little bit of Aziraphale’s joy in his hands because maybe then he could feel it too.

The evening crawled into night and when Crowley announced he was going to bed, Aziraphale looked at him, anxiety clear on his face before sending Crowley off by himself with an excuse that he was going to stay up a while longer. So Crowley had slumped upstairs, feeling more than a bit rejected even though Aziraphale was just doing what he had repeatedly asked of him. Giving him more time, giving him more space. He feels all tangled up, wanting to be alone, to wrap himself in a hard shell and hibernate just to avoid that awful raw, wounded feeling but also wanting Aziraphale beside him as a reminder that yes, he’s here, he hasn’t left you.

Crowley groans and throws off the sheets. He’s not going to be able to sleep and laying around only increases the itching feeling he sometimes gets in his bones. He takes himself downstairs to find Aziraphale seated in the low glow of a lamp, thumbing through a book of poetry Crowley doesn’t recognize. He looks up at Crowley’s approach and his face immediately folds into a smile that goes a long way in soothing Crowley’s nerves.

“Hello, darling,” Aziraphale says, closing the book and turning his full attention to Crowley. “I thought you were asleep.”

Crowley feels like a child out of bed as he takes a seat on the sofa next to Aziraphale, tucking his legs up and making himself small. He tells himself he's just trying to stay warm. “Couldn’t manage it,” he admits, wrapping his fingers around the arch of his foot as he curls himself further inwards. He wants to be here, on the couch, but he’s still feeling lost in old memories and he has the wild impulse to hide as if that will do anything to solve his problems.

Aziraphale reaches out and tugs on his arm. “Please, dear, if you wrap yourself up any tighter you’ll disappear.”

The soft touch of Aziraphale’s hands reminds Crowley that they’re together now. Those hands aren’t Francis’s calloused fingers and Aziraphale just wants to touch and reassure. So Crowley lets Aziraphale unfold him, the angel rearranging him until Crowley is laid in his lap, the soft material of his waistcoat rubbing against Crowley’s cheek. Smiling down at him, Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair and says, “Will this help? You used to fall asleep so easily when I brushed your hair.”

A whine escapes his throat when Aziraphale runs his nails just right over his scalp and he feels Aziraphale’s belly jump with a low laugh. “I forgot you did that.”

Crowley makes a disgruntled noise and jams his face into Aziraphale’s belly, blowing a raspberry that has Aziraphale yelping and pushing at his shoulder. “I don’t see how such behavior will help you sleep,” he admonishes but Crowley can still feel his laughter.

As nice as it is to hear Aziraphale laugh, Crowley concedes and closes his eyes, letting himself relax into the feeling of Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair.

It still doesn’t bring him rest, his mind jumping between the same things he can’t seem to stop thinking like he’s worrying at a sore in his mouth. He should feel settled. He should feel happy here. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begins and Crowley opens his eyes. “I can feel you thinking.”

Crowley scoffs, but in the silence he can’t keep the questions at bay. He’d watched Aziraphale putter around this little guest house, a song perpetually on his lips. He’d watched as Aziraphale peeled off his socks and laughed with joy while the cold water of the ocean claimed his bare toes. He didn’t understand it at all, that easy ability to find joy in something so mundane. Against his better judgment—and before he can stop himself—he asks, “How do you...how are you so happy?”

The words leave his mouth and he feels silly and sentimental. It’s a stupid question anyway.

Aziraphale considers that, fingers stilling in their steady movement. “I don’t exactly know,” he says finally. “I suppose I’ve spent a very long time being unhappy and I don’t have to be anymore.”

“You _ had _ to be unhappy?” Crowley asks, still not understanding. He’s been unhappy but it’s always felt like a choice, as if, if he were stronger, not a demon, simply different, he could have been happy. 

One of Aziraphale’s hands comes to rest on his chest, a flat warm pressure that does wonders to calm the beginning of fear stirring inside Crowley’s ribs. An old fear. An _ I’m broken _fear.

_ Unforgivable. That’s what I am_.

“I wasn’t happy with heaven. I wasn’t happy with our relationship. I wasn’t happy with my post. There was so much joy in me that I tried to share but no matter how happy those around me were, I couldn’t feel it. I’m so glad to be able to feel it again. Without fear or guilt or any of that shame.”

Crowley’s throat is beginning to grow tight so he swallows. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

Aziraphale frowns and Crowley watches the little wrinkle between his eyebrows form, followed by the lines about his mouth as his chin dips. “Do what?”

“Be happy,” he admits quietly. It feels like exposing a wound and he’s struck by a feeling of vulnerability so acute that he immediately wants to take back his words. What had he learned? Vulnerability led to nothing good. 

But who else can he say these things to? He could never say them in Hell and the times when he grew weak and spoke to God, She never replied. He used to not be able to say them to Aziraphale either but now, at midnight in a house by the sea with no one watching, he thinks— no, hopes Aziraphale might want to hear them.

He half-expects Aziraphale to coddle him, to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, to just dismiss his concerns but instead Aziraphale sits with him in silence for a long moment, thinking. “I don’t think that’s true. I’ve known you for a very long time and I think I’ve seen you be happy. What about in Rome?”

The suggestions dislodges the memory in his mind, honey-gold and smooth around the edges like a worry stone. A warm flood of feeling while eating oysters with Aziraphale, the taste of too-dry honey cakes. Several years later he had eaten a brined olive for the first time. He remembers how it was salty and sour and his tongue had never felt anything like it. His heart had kicked up in excitement and he’d eaten far too many. What about the smell of a rose, the feel of silk on his skin? Are those things happiness?

“Maybe you’re right,” Crowley says. He needs to think on it more. Maybe it’s as simple as that, enjoyment. The absence of pain as something soothes the body.

Aziraphale’s expression shifts from concern to something dopey and loving that is so embarrassing Crowley has to close his eyes. 

“I have a surprise for you,” Aziraphale says and that warrants Crowley cracking one eye open. “You’ll have to sit up though.”

Hesitantly, Crowley lets Aziraphale stand. He watches him bustle across the room to one of the bags he brought, retrieving a—

“Scrabble!” Aziraphale announces, holding up the brown box with unrepentant joy. 

Crowley groans but it’s mostly for show, because, as much as it’s silly, he’ll be grateful for the distraction. He needs one. Anything to pull him out of the funk he’s fallen into.

“And…”Aziraphale says, the drumroll implicit as he withdraws something else from the bag. “Your favorite Chateau Lafite!”

Crowley crosses the room and plucks the bottle from his hand, inspecting the label. It really is his favorite. The one from 2007 that sold out immediately. “I can’t believe you found one of these.”

“I’ve actually…” Aziraphale trails off, some of his enthusiasm fading and being replaced by obvious nerves. “I’ve had it for quite a while. You mentioned it once and I…when we weren’t speaking...”

Crowley approaches Aziraphale carefully, and wraps one arm loosely around his waist. “Always being ridiculously considerate, aren’t you?”

A little of Aziraphale’s smile returns and Crowley realizes that it had been chased it away so thoroughly just by a memory. Sometimes Crowley forgets that he wasn’t the only one hurt. Still hurting.

“So my proposal is this,” Aziraphale says, pulling away a few inches to look Crowley in the eye. “Wine and Scrabble.”

“Put me to sleep, why don’t you,” Crowley says but he’s teasing and let’s Aziraphale tug him through the door to the little breakfast nook where they slowly set up the board with its little alphabet tiles. 

Aziraphale leaves him to fiddle with his letters—Aziraphale always brings the ones with the bigger letters so Crowley can see them easier—while he gets them two glasses, pouring one for each of them when he returns. 

They’re halfway through the game (and bottle) when Aziraphale says, “It really was a lovely day today.”

Crowley hums, focused on trying to remember how to spell “piece”. _ I before E except after C _.

“I suppose,” he says, distracted as he lays out the word. Aziraphale leans back in his chair and watches him, thoughtful and disconcerting like he is sometimes when he just _ looks _ at Crowley.

“What?” Crowley asks finally when his pieces are laid and Aziraphale hasn’t even begun to consider the board.

“Do you remember Paris? I was locked up in the Bastille — Gabriel had put the kibosh on my miracles and —”

“Of course I remember Paris,” Crowley scoffs. He remembers because Aziraphale had been all in gold, hair a white puff that look like it would thread through his fingers like silk. He remembers because of the way Aziraphale had thanked him, so effusive. Aziraphale had casually touched his hand when they ate crepes and Crowley realized exactly how far gone he was when that simple touch sent him reeling for weeks. 

Aziraphale smiles at him, his chin tipping down unselfconsciously. “I was thinking about how you looked then. That outfit. I don’t think I rightly appreciated it. Should have known though, how I felt. You made me feel downright wild. I thought I just missed your company.”

Something in Crowley squirms a bit under the expected compliment so he cracks a wicked grin—easier to play this game than the exchange of vulnerability on the couch. No more of that thank you very much—and says, “Liked the cut of my trousers did you?”

Aziraphale blushes, such a pretty thing, and shoots him a fond yet exasperated look. “Yes. That is in fact what I am saying. And I’m saying it because I was thinking this kitchen light makes you look particularly fetching. Which is unfair to be honest.”

Crowley looks up at the humming fluorescent light. “Under these awful lights, really?”

“In any light I think,” Aziraphale says primly returning his attention to the board where he plays out G-E-N-U-I-N-E.

Double word score. 

Bastard.

They play until the sun rises and Crowley makes them tea. Neither of them had gotten particularly drunk but Crowley had enjoyed the wine, the way it rolled in his mouth, silken and sweet. 

Crowley did win one of the games but he’s fairly certain Aziraphale let him. Well, if he judged by the tiny smirk on Aziraphale’s face throughout the entire next game. It gives him that warm glowing feeling he sometimes gets around Aziraphale, the one that made him fall in love in the first place. It’s something he’s shoved away for years and now he supposes he can openly bask in it.

Aziraphale is humming as he makes toast, doing that thing where he wiggles his hips absentmindedly. Crowley spins the tea cup on its saucer and bites down on a smile. 

“What are you humming over there, angel?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale pauses in his little distracted dance.

“You know,” he begins, tilting his chin up in thought, “I don’t rightly know.”

Aziraphale hums a few more bars. “Do you recognize it?

“Nah, don’t think so.”

The sun filters in through the lace curtains of the kitchen window and lights up Aziraphale’s white hair. His eyes take on that ethereal quality that he usually has to hide but he seems too content to care. 

The realization that Aziraphale is comfortable with him after years of discomfort and awkwardness has Crowley’s stomach rioting. He used to think—he used to beg God and hope—that Aziraphale would settle into this life they had, the Arrangement, their friendship. And sure he hoped for more. He’d always been a sorry excuse for a demon because he desperately _ wanted _ things. Soft things. Beautiful angelic things. But he had believed for so long that maybe another year, another decade, another century and Aziraphale would meet him where he was and that they would be _ comfortable _ with each other.

And here it is. Just happening on a nondescript Tuesday in Dover as Aziraphale butters toast and Crowley slurps his rapidly cooling tea.

“It must be that music your car insists on playing,” Aziraphale observes with a short shake of his head. “Do you want jam on your toast? I have strawberry.”

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise and uses his powers to warm his tea. 

“Whatever you’re having,” Crowley says finally, looking out over the patch of grass that leads to the sea. 

Aziraphale slides a plate over to him and begins to chatter, the cadence of his voice washing over Crowley, steady as the lull of waves that Crowley thinks he might be able to hear if he listens hard enough. 

“I was thinking we could go into town today. There are some lovely shops. A patisserie that I heard does marvelous macarons that we absolutely must try. But I’m sure there will be other curiosities we can take in.”

Crowley nods along, watching as Aziraphale takes his small delicate bites of toast, and thinking this might just be what existence is like now. And isn’t that a lovely thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on tumblr[here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by alligatorsnbats

Aziraphale thinks there’s something perfect about this place by the sea, but he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself so he doesn’t linger on the thought. He knows he can get overly sentimental. One of his many failings. But it’s difficult to remind himself of this fact while watching Crowley and his half-smile in the sunrise at the shore because it’s nearly everything he never allowed himself to want.

It does wonders to alleviate the gnawing ache in his chest that he’d ignored for so long he had almost forgotten it was there. He supposes that after awhile you adjust to certain types of pain and this had been one of them. 

They spend the whole day pottering about the cottage, Crowley on his phone, snorting periodically at something he must be reading while Aziraphale settles in with a book. It’s quiet and easy and then, around noon, Crowley starts up with his fidgeting.

Aziraphale wonders if he should reach out, like he normally does, to get Crowley up and out of the house. But before he can really even entertain the thought, Crowley is standing by the door and shrugging into a coat and scarf.

“Be out for a bit, angel,” he tosses over his shoulder and then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him.

Aziraphale stares at it for a moment, trying not to feel hurt by his sudden departure. They’d agreed to give each other space when they needed. So maybe Crowley needs space.

Aziraphale wishes he would have explained himself, but perhaps that’s expecting too much.

**

Crowley comes back to the cottage after nightfall. Aziraphale had been trying to cook in the kitchen and is failing miserably. Proof in the charred asparagus and undercooked rice sitting on the stove. But it had been an interesting enough experiment. One of many new things to try here after the end of the world.

“Trying to burn the house down, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks from behind him, startling Aziraphale where he’s trying to remove a recalcitrant sprig of burned asparagus from the baking sheet.

He yelps and drops the metal sheet, stepping back. “Oh, goodness. You gave me quite a fright,” Aziraphale says, pressing a hand to his chest before taking a deep breath and kneeling to pick up the mess. 

Crowley slithers up beside him and snaps his fingers, mess disappearing, baking sheets immaculate and now perched on the worktop. 

“What’re you doing rollicking around on the floor?” Crowley asks, one eyebrow cocked curiously. 

“Trying new things,” Aziraphale answers, putting one hand on the worktop to heft himself back to his feet.

Crowley snorts, one hip leaned entirely against the edge of sink beside Aziraphale as he crosses his arms over his chest. He’s wearing his sunglasses and they shine in the flourescent light of the kitchen, a black mirror.

“Were you feeling peckish?” Crowley asks, twisting around to look at the sink where the worst of the detritus had fallen as Aziraphale had tried to clean. “Have a craving for...asparagus?”

“Really?” he adds when he turns back to Aziraphale. One corner of his mouth is ticked up and Aziraphale wants to kiss it. So he does.

Crowley tenses under him for moment and then his mouth parts slightly, enough for them both to linger in the sharing of breath and heat. 

Aziraphale places his hand on the curve of Crowley’s ribs, feels his exhale. “Where did you go today?”

For a moment they were still close enough to kiss but then Crowley pulls away. “Just walking.”

“Walking?” Aziraphale repeats. Crowley doesn’t go on long walks unless Aziraphale drags him out on one. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard of it,” Crowley says, sounding strangely bitter as he goes to the tap to fill the kettle.

Aziraphale has no idea why he’s suddenly making tea so he just watches, confused as Crowley fiddles with the burners and puts the water on.

“Just in town?” Aziraphale asks. “Or did you take yourself elsewhere?”

“Town,” Crowley replies tightly. The line of his shoulders makes Aziraphale want to reach out and soothe away the tension but he feels as if there’s a wall between them, being built up brick by brick as each second passes.

“Are you -” Aziraphale hesitates. He doesn’t like the fear coiling inside him. He remembers how warm and safe he felt that morning. How in love. He grasps at the feeling and asks, “Are you alright?”

Crowley sighs and it’s as if the wall crumbles. “Yeah, sorry, I - got caught up in my head is all. Thinking too much. Turns out long introspective walks aren’t for me.”

“How terribly shocking,” Aziraphale says drily, hoping some light teasing will help them find their footing again. He wants to go back to 30 second ago when they were kissing like nothing else mattered.

Crowley humphs like he wants to laugh but he’s still feeling sour. And then he’s making Aziraphale tea like that had been his plan the whole time and they end up in the living room, Aziraphale settled in a chair, reading more Stephen King as he sips at his tea.

Crowley tosses his feet over the end of the sofa and Aziraphale glances at him occasionally to see if he’s fallen asleep. It’s sometimes hard to tell with the glasses covering his eyes. Eventually Crowley sits up, swings his legs over the edge of couch and pauses. “I’m going up to bed.”

He says it simply, with just enough lilt that it’s a question. One that Aziraphale still doesn’t know how to answer.

“I’m not particularly tired,” he says lightly. “But enjoy your rest.”

Crowley’s nostrils flare and then he sweeps from the room. 

Aziraphale is beginning to feel like things are slipping out of his control.

**

Crowley holds up a miniature cherub statue and smirks at Aziraphale who rolls his eyes.

“Look, it’s you,” Crowley says, holding it out to Aziraphale who takes it and gives it an appraising once over.

The little antique shop they found on the outskirts of Dover is full of oddities and Crowley has spent the hour they’ve been browsing holding up various religious iconography for Aziraphale’s input. Aziraphale has gamely played along, simply pleased that Crowley seems to be enjoying himself. He had been slightly worried that this would be an activity Crowley would suffer through silently, slowly growing bored and irritated.

The day before had been strange with Crowley disappearing. Aziraphale had spent most of the previous night pondering that very fact and finally realized that perhaps Crowley had been feeling too vulnerable after their early morning conversation. Crowley has always had difficulty with vulnerability. Something Aziraphale can completely understand. They are both trying and that’s what matters.

“I think perhaps this looks more like Sandolphan,” Aziraphale says, pointing out the angel’s buck teeth. That earns him a snort from Crowley who takes back the statue and replaces it on the shelf.

“What a twat,” Crowley says and Aziraphale hums in agreement. He’s glad he doesn’t have to deal with all those horrible angels anymore.

Aziraphale squats down and inspects a rather charming tea set with delicate bluebells painted on it. He pulls out one of the cups. “This is lovely, don’t you think?”

Crowley looks down at it and his mouth falls into a razor thin line. “Not one for flower patterns, angel.”

Aziraphale wonders a bit at that, but he supposes he’s seen Crowley’s flat and his sleek lines. And it’s not as if his own bookshop has any pattern besides tartan and the occasional paisley so he doesn’t know how Crowley could have developed a dislike for…oh.

“Ah, I suppose you’re right. Perhaps you’d like something with a bit more fire and brimstone then? Do you think they make teapots with little skulls? Or perhaps you’d prefer something more serpentine?” Aziraphale says in a light tone, trying to keep up the teasing air. He doesn’t want Crowley to linger too long on whatever dark thoughts often plague him. The ones that keep him up nights.

Crowley scowls but struggles to come up with a suitable retort, finally settling on, “Humans make all sorts of tacky things.”

Aziraphale gives him a look of faux shock. “Are you saying snake motifs are tacky?”

Crowley’s scowl deepens and for a moment Aziraphale is worried that he overstepped. Then Crowley snorts. “That’s a bit rude. Snakes are obviously very  _ in _ .”

“Well, regardless, I’m rather fond of them,” Aziraphale says, brushing their hands together as they exit the shop.

They do end up at the patisserie Aziraphale mentioned in passing, Crowley slumping behind him, but eyeing the petit fours in the case which just prompts Aziraphale to buy him one of each even as Crowley protests.

The cafe is playing some song that Aziraphale vaguely recognizes but can’t place the name of. He wonders if it’s something Crowley played for him at some point. It’s grating and Aziraphale can’t think where else he could have possibly heard it.

_ Am I more than you bargained for yet _

Crowley bares his teeth at one of the speakers and snaps his fingers, the song turning over to something more mundane, a light jazz that feels more appropriate for the setting.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says with a little pat to Crowley’s forearm. “That was quite irritating.”

Harsh lines form at the edges of Crowley’s mouth and he stays silent.

They settle in to a little table in the corner of the cafe where Aziraphale can savor his lavender macaron for as long as he pleases and Crowley can take dubious bites of the little cakes that Aziraphale bought him. Each one should be enough for only one bite but Crowley manages to stretch them each into four or five, face unreadable after each one.

“Are they any good?” Aziraphale asks, brushing the crumbs from his fingers.

Crowley pushes a half-eaten chocolate coffee concoction to the edge of his plate. “You’ll like that one. And the pistachio.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, fork already raised as Crowley pushes it an extra millimeter.

The coffee cream is delectable and Aziraphale immediately knows why Crowley likes it, his preferences for bitter flavors something Aziraphale knows well. The pistachio on the other hand is soft and sweet and Aziraphale realizes Crowley saved it for him because he knew - the same way Aziraphale knew Crowley’s preferences - that Aziraphale would love it.

“Oh that’s delicious,” he says with an appreciative hum. When he looks back at Crowley, the demon has his head cradled in one hand, a far-off look on his face as he stares at Aziraphale. He looks happy. In love. 

Aziraphale puts his fork down and wipes his mouth in an effort to calm himself.

“What would you like to do now?” he asks, holding back the wild desire to yank Crowley across the table and kiss him.

Crowley shrugs and says, “We’ve done the antiques and you’ve had your macarons. Anywhere else you want to go? We’ve got all day.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, really  _ looks _ and he sees that same expression from years ago. The one Crowley wore every time he reached out to Aziraphale, silently saying,  _ I love you, tell me what you need, I’ll give it to you. _

He’s so overwhelmed by affection that he can’t hold it in anymore and the words spill from him, water through a cracked dam. “I love you.”

Crowley sits back in his chair, eyebrows shooting up his forehead, and his jaw clenches.

“Very much,” Aziraphale adds lamely, rejection settling cold in his belly. Is this what it felt like for Crowley every time Aziraphale didn’t say it back?

The thought makes anger rise inside him. Is this some sort of revenge plot? Is Crowley trying to hurt Aziraphale? Give him a taste of his own medicine?

Trying to force down his frustration but failing miserably, he stammers, “I - we should leave.”

He can’t have this conversation. He never wants to have this conversation. He stands quickly, metal chair scraping across the floor before he rushes out of the store. 

Crowley hurries after him. “Angel, what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale whirls on him, quickly losing reign of his emotions. “What’s - what’s  _ wrong _ ?” he asks incredulously.

Crowley holds out his hands, eyebrows contorted in question. “If you just explain, I’ll apologize. Anything.”

Aziraphale feels his face grow hot. He’s angry. Well and truly angry. 

He closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths, thinking through all the things he’s read and how much he’s hurt Crowley. This is why they’re here. They’re working on it.

Aziraphale opens his eyes as Crowley draws closer, spreading his hands out to the side in a defenseless gesture like he’s trying to expose his soft underbelly and say,  _ Look, Aziraphale, it’s only me _ . “You’re gonna have to help me out here – “

“Help  _ you _ ?” Aziraphale says. Breathing techniques be damned. “I just told you I loved you and you stared at me like I was a fool.”

Crowley’ bares his teeth and says, far too mockingly, “So the shoe’s on the other foot now and it’s  _ my _ fault?”

“It’s certainly not mine!” Aziraphale nearly shouts. They’re drawing attention now, two men yelling on the street in front of a quaint patisserie as the fall wind whips at their hair.

Aziraphale steps closer and drops his voice. “At least I am trying to find a way for us. You have to meet me halfway. I want to save this thing between us.”

“Maybe it’s not worth saving,” Crowley spits and that hurts worse than his silence in the café. It makes Aziraphale gasp and stumble back.

“I thought - ” he begins. Images of their day, soft and happy with Crowley smiling and teasing him at every turn flash through his mind and twist with shame because maybe Crowley didn’t want that. Maybe Aziraphale had been an idiot. “I’m sorry.”

It’s a kneejerk reaction. Apologizing. He’s done it for years. Centuries. So of course he apologizes before tears take over and he turns on his heel to rush down the street. He wants to be alone. Maybe he should transport himself back to London, to anywhere Crowley  _ isn’t _ .

No, he thinks firmly as he swallows around the stone in his throat. If Crowley doesn’t want to be around him, then he can go back to London. Aziraphale wanted to come here so he’s going to stay.

Aziraphale manages to get himself back to the guesthouse and stumble through the door before falling onto the couch and letting the tears come. It’s a sort of grief he hasn’t felt for a long time. It’s heavy and cold in a way he hasn’t felt since Crowley told him they weren’t friends and slammed the bedroom door of the Dowling’s cottage before disappearing for years. He’s spent the last three months trying to be there for Crowley, help him see that it’s safe for them to be together, to rebuild trust. If Crowley doesn’t want this, then Aziraphale needs to respect that. But that doesn’t mean he can’t take some time to grieve.

Wiping at his eyes, Aziraphale sets about making tea, the familiar rhythm soothing his nerves and settling the shame that still sits cold in his belly. He closes his eyes and tries to even out his breathing while the kettle begins its low rumble.

If he doesn’t have Crowley what does he have? He could probably go back to Heaven if he came crawling on his knees. The thought sends fear down his spine. He can’t do that. He doesn’t  _ want _ that. 

He pulls the kettle off just before the whistle, pouring the water into his mug and breathing in the steam. He supposes, without Crowley, he could travel. Go back to Japan. He’s always wanted to go to New Zealand but none of his assignments had ever taken him there. South America was another place he’d rarely been able to go that he found himself curious over. He has the whole world. Every language to learn and every book to read.

He supposes existence without Crowley might be lonely at first. He’d miss him something awful. But what had Aziraphale done in the centuries where they didn’t speak? He doesn’t need Crowley.

_ But you want him. _

The thought hits with an awful clarity that only comes with the most honest statements. The ones that hurt, that tear at you.

Aziraphale wraps his hands around the mug and goes back into the living room, nearly dropping it on his foot when he sees Crowley sitting against the far arm of the couch, arms crossed over his chest and a stormy expression on his face.

The demon snaps his fingers and the hearth blazes to life. Its light reflects in the deep pools of Crowley’s sunglasses and for a brief moment, Aziraphale feels like he’s burning in that light.

“Crowley,” he says, aiming for polite but landing somewhere in the vicinity of cold. “I’d thought you’d leave.”

Crowley turns his head in that snake-like way, a bit too smooth, a bit too far and regards Aziraphale. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he sneers.

Maybe Aziraphale deserves his harsh words but he has tea in his hands and he’s in a cozy cottage in Dover and he refuses to let Crowley treat him this way. “If you wish to behave like this then that’s your prerogative, however, I refuse to indulge you. I’ll be in my bedroom.”

Aziraphale walks away, trying not to look back at Crowley even though he imagines he can feel his eyes on him like a weight. Aziraphale feels sick with it. It’s a relief to close the door behind himself as he enters the cold blue room with it’s gauzy curtains and white duvet. It's like something out of an awful holiday movie. Which is perhaps apt, Aziraphale thinks wryly as he sets his now unappetizing tea on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed.

Looking out into the late afternoon sun, Aziraphale feels a surge of thankfulness that it all still exists. That he can sit on this duvet and stare outside at a beach where humans are walking and laughing. It exists because of him. Because of Crowley.

He sighs. He needs a drink. Something stronger than tea.

The creaking of the door signals Crowley’s entrance and Aziraphale desperately does not want to fight. This was supposed to be a holiday. It was supposed to be nice. Just the two of them.

Aziraphale turns to face Crowley. “Crowley, I’m sorry, but I’m still quite cross. If you can give me a day or just… a bit more time, we can discuss whatever you have come back here to discuss.”

Aziraphale finally lets his gaze settle on Crowley. He’s standing in the doorway, one hand clutched on the ornate glass doorknob, looking as if one wrong word might dissolve him. He’s not wearing his glasses and it stirs something in Aziraphale, a latent desire to stand and bring Crowley close to say things like,  _ It’s alright, I’m sorry, please, I love you _ . But he’s said those things. Those things don’t work. So he sits. And he waits.

“I’m,” Crowley begins. It’s quiet enough that Aziraphale thinks for a strange moment that he’s imagined it. Crowley looks at his booted feet. “I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

Aziraphale wonders if he can be patient. He wants to be. He should be able to be. He’s an angel, paragon of virtues and all. And yet, Crowley’s words dig at him, broken as they are.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have, but you did,” Aziraphale says, releasing the fist he didn’t even realized he’d made. “And if you feel that way then I’m glad you said it. At least we’re on the same page. Even if it’s not, it’s not…”

The stone in Aziraphale’s throat is back but this time it feels jagged, cutting as he tries to swallow around it. He forces himself to speak. “Even if it’s not what I’d hoped.”

He tilts his chin up and looks at Crowley, meeting eyes that look vulnerable and terrified. He hopes Crowley knows he means what he’s about to say. “I value your friendship and I hope we can, at least, maintain that even if you would like to terminate our romantic relationship.”

Crowley makes a choking noise, his hand releasing from the doorknob and coming up to his chest as he takes a step forward. Pauses. “Aziraphale…”

Crowley’s hands go to his hair and he starts to tug on it wildly, arms acute angles above his head as he begins to gesture. “It’s not...fuck...that’s not. I fucked up.”

At that, Crowley turns to face him fully, coming up to his side and dropping to his knees to hold his hand. Aziraphale doesn’t draw away immediately because he’s pathetic and, even now, the warmth of Crowley’s hand in his chases away some of the sickly shame in his gut. 

“I - you -” Crowley stutters through the beginning of a sentence several times before falling silent. Aziraphale waits a bit longer but, impatient as he is, he can’t stand it.

Crowley closes his eyes and then tips his forehead until it comes to rest on Aziraphale’s knees. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Aziraphale drops his hand into Crowley’s hair. His stomach is in knots and the cold fear inside him makes him want to end the conversation. Instead he closes his eyes and listens.

“I don’t want to leave either. Here. It’s where I want to be. With you.”

A single tear rolls down Aziraphale’s cheek, hot and shameful in how much relief it brings.

When Aziraphale opens his eyes, he sees Crowley staring up at him, looking stricken. “Fuck, angel, I -”

He breaks off and releases Aziraphale’s hand, falling to the ground beside him so that his back is pressed against the foot of the bed.

“I don’t know how to do this.” 

“And you think I do?” Aziraphale replies softly. He sniffs a bit, trying to stay the tears that still threaten to overtake him. 

They are silent for a long time. Aziraphale imagines he can hear the rush of the ocean in the distance and wishes that they were back by the shore, his toes in the water while Crowley looked on, waiting.

“It hurts that you won’t say you love me,” Aziraphale says finally. It feels horrible to say, each word digging through the layers of ancient soil inside him that Aziraphale has spent an eternity burying his shame and love beneath.

“I know,” Crowley says, head tipping back to thunk against the duvet. “Believe me. I bloody know.”

“Do you want me not to say it?” Aziraphale asks carefully picking at the fabric of his trousers like some imaginary lint will distract him from the way his heart is inverting.

Crowley groans, a deep painful thing. “I do...feel that way. It’s just. Years, Aziraphale. It’s been a few months for you but it was years for me. I…”

Aziraphale sympathizes somewhat. He remembers how painful it was to hear Crowley say he loved him but not be able to say the words back. For fear of retribution. Of Crowley’s ultimate duplicity. “You’re not trying to punish me?”

Crowley surges up, startling Aziraphale as he climbs onto the bed next to him, looking at him so fiercely that Aziraphale has the brief urge to cower. “No. Never.”

The thoughts that have been digging at Aziraphale finally pause and the reprieve from that terrible excavation is enough to make him sag against Crowley’s arm.

“Shit,” Crowley says, the word a gust of air over Aziraphale’s curls as Crowley wraps his arms around him. “It’s worth it. This is. Of course it is. Shouldn’t have said different. I was angry.”

Aziraphale laughs bitterly and wipes at his eyes. “I think we both said some things. Perhaps in this instance we can agree to forgive each other?”

Crowley nods emphatically and they sit together for a moment before Crowley stands. “Can I get you anything? Some tea?”

It’s that manic energy Aziraphale recognizes but doesn’t know how to stop so he just watches as Crowley rushes from the room. Lying back on the bed, Aziraphale looks up at the spackle ceiling and lets some of the angry tension inside of himself go. He’s angry at Crowley, but mostly he’s angry at himself for creating this situation. 

Crowley is gone for longer than a cup of tea warrants and when he returns with a steaming cup Aziraphale notices that his hair has lost most of its volume, flopping over his forehead and his eyes are red rimmed. He doesn’t look at Aziraphale as he replaces the cold cup of tea on the nightstand with the new one.

The almost constant urge to soothe him and hold him returns so Aziraphale holds out his hand. Crowley takes it, allowing Aziraphale to tug him closer until he can wrap his arms around Crowley’s waist and let his head come to rest on his belly.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, voice muffled in the black fabric of Crowley’s shirt. 

“What for?” Crowley asks, one hand carding through Aziraphale’s hair, so soothing that Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut.

“Coming here,” Aziraphale says simply, even though he’s fairly certain he means something else entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am currently not sure why but this chapter was painful for me to write. i think its partly because we are finally sinking our teeth into aziraphale's trauma which is...unfortunately close to my own.
> 
> as always, thanks for reading. more to come! the rubber is really going to hit the road soon!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for (not super graphic) panic attack in this chapter  
beta'ed by alligatorsnbats

_the day before_

The settled feeling that had sunk into Crowley after his morning with Aziraphale begins to dissipate around noon. The easy feeling from when they were playing scrabble and sharing wine is all but gone. He’s poking at his phone, scrolling through things they can do nearby. Restaurant reviews. Art gallery openings. Things Aziraphale likes. Things Crowley likes too.

But soon enough, it’s not enough of a distraction and his mind starts to wander. 

Aziraphale is sitting quietly in the chair on the far side of the room and Crowley is suddenly in a different house where the distance between the couch and the chair was impassable. Where Aziraphale, different shaped but always the same, had looked at him with pain in his eyes while Crowley held out his heart over and over again only to have it tossed aside every time.

He swallows hard, but the feeling in his throat—like stones, like glass—won’t go away so he swings himself off the sofa and marches to the door.

He barely hears Aziraphale’s concerned question before he’s outside, the cold fall wind whipping at his face, just harsh enough to distract him from memories he wishes he could bury.

He goes into town, hating every second, every thought passing through his mind. He feels like an idiot and a cruel one at that. Can’t even spare a moment to explain himself to the person he loves. 

* * *

He lingers in town, smoking cigarettes and thinking himself into a stupor. His nerves are jangling like bells and the nicotine does nothing to settle them. He’s a lake, a cracked glass, a whole list of things that can overflow. So he sits on a bench underneath an unlit lamp post and lights another cigarette.

He hates that he’s like this. That Aziraphale has to take him for walks like a dog. He wishes he were home, in the safety of his flat, where he could yell at his plants, and throw things against walls when his skin itches too much. But he’s in Dover instead and underneath this spilling feeling, he knows there’s happiness. 

He just needs to dig it out.

* * *

The sun sets eventually and Crowley takes himself back to the cottage, the knowledge that Aziraphale is probably worried is enough to make guilt settle low in his gut. Despite all that, he does feel better. Enough cigarettes, enough fresh air, enough time to let the thoughts run out.

Aziraphale is scraping something off a cooking sheet over the sink, a concentrated frown on his face that make Crowley’s insides do something funny. Oh right. He’s in love. And Aziraphale, as always, is adorable.

And it’s almost normal for a bit, but it’s also an afterimage of a different time and place. Crowley tries to forget it all when Aziraphale kisses him. He tries to forget when he stands from the couch three hours later and says he’s going to bed.

But he can’t forget because Aziraphale says:

“I’m not particularly tired. But enjoy your rest.”

What did Crowley think? That things would change? That Aziraphale would love him and it would all be alright? It’s a nice lie but Crowley doesn’t know if he wants to tell himself lies anymore.

So he says nothing.

He goes to bed.

* * *

Crowley’s resolve is weak. He knows it. 

Aziraphale smiles at him and asks to go antiquing and despite the thoughts he had lying awake—_ This can’t work. You’re going to suffocate him when you finally break and all this spills out. Broken. Broken. Broken _—he goes with him. He smiles as best he can and there are moments where it’s fun. Moments where Aziraphale brushes their hands together and looks at Crowley like he’s perhaps the best thing in the world.

Aziraphale kisses his cheek outside an old bookstore and Crowley thinks about it until they walk into the next curio shop. He wants to shove Aziraphale against the nearest wall and kiss him until he can’t breathe. He wants to slide his hands under his clothes and feel him because Aziraphale is over there poking at old records and Crowley is by the door and the bell is tinkling and it’s too far. Always too far.

But it’s fine. 

Crowley is fine.

And that’s true until they walk into the patisserie Aziraphale had spotted and the loudspeakers play strains of music he stopped listening to years ago. The emotions that kick through his chest are enough to make him snarl. He doesn’t want this. He snaps his fingers to turn off the noise—turn it all off. 

Aziraphale hums in appreciation.

“That was quite irritating.”

_ Irritating, irritating. _

The song plays on loop in his mind as he picks at the little cakes Aziraphale bought him. He’d rather Aziraphale ate them. He’d enjoy them more.

And sure enough, when he pushes the cakes to Aziraphale, he gets to watch the angel’s eyelids flutter shut, his slow smile as he declares Crowley’s offerings delicious. Just seeing him like that makes Crowley’s insides calm and he remembers that he wants to be here. Aziraphale wants him here. Ludicrous as the thought is. It’s true.

“What would you like to do now?” Aziraphale asks and his face has a softness about it that reminds Crowley of good things. Sunshine, warm skin, roses.

Out of habit, Crowley offers Aziraphale a choice. _ Anywhere you want to go_. And that softness transforms into something so besotted that it’s like he’s reached out and grasped Crowley’s heart in his chest. 

“I love you.”

The words should be a balm but instead each one feels like a storm break against the beleaguered dam of his heart. His ears ring and he hears Aziraphale say something else but he’s too busy focusing on his breathing. 

It’s the scrape of a chair that draws Crowley’s attention. And then they fight.

They fight like they haven’t fought since armageddon. And Crowley doesn’t remember it feeling quite like this.

Maybe, without the threat of imminent destruction, it all hurts worse because it’s not said in stress and panic. It’s real. They _ mean _ this. 

Except Crowley says something he doesn’t mean. Calls Aziraphale _ not worth it_. The biggest lie he’s ever told perhaps. And Aziraphale starts crying. 

For a moment, Crowley doesn’t care. Aziraphale _ deserves to hurt_. How much had Aziraphale hurt Crowley? Over and over and over. Years of hurt compounded into a moment. And Crowley should leave because he hates this. Hates himself. Hates Aziraphale.

Except that isn’t true is it? He loves Aziraphale. Couldn’t hate him if he tried.

He tells Aziraphale that after they fight. Best he can. On his knees on the floor of their picture perfect cottage, he apologizes. How do people do this? It turns out neither he nor Aziraphale know. Which is bloody great. Muddle through this nonsense together, hurting each other at every turn. Bloody perfect.

“It hurts that you won’t say you love me,” Aziraphale says, breaking into Crowley’s spiraling thoughts.

“I know.” Crowley does. Crowley knows intimately how much it hurts. “Believe me. I bloody know.”

“Do you want me not to say it?” Aziraphale asks from above him, voice small. It tears Crowley up because he doesn’t want Aziraphale to make himself smaller. He wants Aziraphale exactly as he is. But how does he even begin to explain?

“I do...feel that way. It’s just,” Crowley breaks off and scrubs at his eyes. He’s not going to cry. “Years, Aziraphale. It’s been a few months for you but it was years for me. I…”

Crowley hears a rustling on the duvet like Aziraphale is shifting around before he asks, “You’re not trying to punish me?”

Crowley denies it immediately. Except...he sort of had been trying to punish him. Not on purpose. He swears to himself that he won’t do it again.

The rest of the conversation is a blur because Crowley needs to leave. He needs to go somewhere and do something with his hands so he doesn’t cry.

It doesn’t work. He makes tea and he still cries. It’s stupid, but after it’s done he does...feel better.

He hopes Aziraphale feels better too.

* * *

They tiptoe around each other for a day. Crowley had forgotten the way Aziraphale could skitter like a rabbit from a room and by nightfall he’s exhausted at how much effort it’s taken to avoid each other. When Aziraphale edges into the living room with a bottle of wine and a book, the tension in Crowley uncoils. That’s normal. More normal anyway.

But then Aziraphale sits in the chair by the fire and fidgets and Crowley knows he’s about to say something that might be even more exhausting.

“I wanted to…” Aziraphale begins and then clears his throat. “We don’t have to go to Calais if you’d prefer.”

Crowley blinks at the abrupt introduction of the topic. “Why wouldn’t I want to go to Calais?”

“Well”—more fidgeting—“I wasn’t sure if—if you were still enjoying yourself and the purpose of this whole endeavor was to relax.”

Aziraphale is looking at him openly. There are still nerves there and Crowley wonders if he practiced this little speech because it’s so...emotionless. 

“I am enjoying myself,” Crowley says. “Well, enough anyway.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, eyes flicking down and Crowley notices the way his hands twitch. He has a sense that something is going on but he can’t figure out what. Should he press? He’s not good at this. Aziraphale’s the good one.

Well, in lieu of a finer touch, Crowley thinks a hammer will do well enough to knock down a wall.

“What’s going on? You’re being weird.”

Aziraphale sits up straight and his eyes do that flickering thing like he can’t decide where to look. “We-weird?”

“Nervous,” Crowley explains and then he narrows his eyes. “Fake. Do _ you _ want to leave?”

“Not precisely.”  
  
“Well, then precisely what?” Crowley asks and he thanks his lucky stars that he manages to make the question sound soft. Not his usual tack surely. 

The words finally burst from Aziraphale. “You seem miserable, Crowley. I thought—I thought you’d like it here but you—you don’t and I just want us to both be happy.”

Crowley takes that in for a moment. He’s not the most emotionally intelligent individual but he has spent an eternity dealing with what a modern psychiatrist might call the worst case of anxiety they’d ever seen. Might call. Not because Crowley’d been. Or asked. 

Regardless, Crowley thinks he knows projection when he sees it. “Come here,” he says, flapping his hand at Aziraphale.

“What?”

“Come sit with me. Have a chat.”

Aziraphale looks at him askance but stands and wanders over to the couch. Crowley suddenly feels nervous but he pushes through. “Come on. Lie down.”

Aziraphale sits carefully and lets Crowley maneuver him until his head is in his lap. They haven’t done this very often, but Crowley likes when Aziraphale plays with his hair when he’s having his own troubles so he reasons that it might work for Aziraphale. 

“Alright,” Crowley says as he brushes his fingers through Aziraphale’s downy curls. “This alright?”

“Yes?” Aziraphale says, staring up at him. Crowley places a careful hand on his chest and fiddles with one of the buttons of his waistcoat.

“I’m not miserable,” Crowley says after a moment and Aziraphale lets out a long breath.

“It’s hard for me to believe that.”

“Why?” Crowley asks. He’s realizing that the hair just above Aziraphale’s ears is somehow softer than the rest. How nice.

“You’re so...so fidgety.”

“When am I not fidgety?”

Aziraphale considers that for a moment. “Fair point.”

They sit in silence for a bit. Crowley finds petting Aziraphale’s hair is almost as good as the other way around and makes a note of that for the future. 

“The other day,” Crowley begins with forced ease, “You said you were happy. I asked you why. Remember?”

Aziraphale hums. “Yes, I am very happy. This is lovely.”

Crowley does not groan in frustration because it would be rude, but he must make some noise because Aziraphale fixes him with a look. 

“Well, I don’t think you’re happy.”

Aziraphale sits up abruptly, almost knocking into Crowley’s chin in his haste. “Excuse me?”

“You’re making yourself miserable, Aziraphale.”

“I am not!”

Crowley ignores his protest. “Is it guilt?”

“I’m not miserable,” Aziraphale insists but Crowley thinks he’s starting to look scared.

“The world won’t fall apart if you’re unhappy,” Crowley points out.

“But _ you _ will,” Aziraphale says and then immediately looks like he regrets it.

Crowley sits in that for a second. He doesn’t like what the implications do to his insides. Aziraphale’s making himself miserable _ for _ Crowley. 

“That’s my problem, isn’t it?” Crowley says finally. “Always has been. Always will be.”

“I just want to help you,” Aziraphale says, sounding desperate. 

“You’re helping. Being here helps,” Crowley says frankly. It’s true enough. Even if sometimes Aziraphale being here makes it worse. 

_ It’s worth it _, he reminds himself. 

Aziraphale looks lost and Crowley doesn’t know what to do. He thinks about their first day here and he’s willing to try anything at this point. “Let’s go down to the water.”

Aziraphale frowns. “What? It’s the middle of the night, Crowley.”

“Won’t stop us,” Crowley replies with a lopsided grin. He feels a bit more himself than he has since they came here. He thinks it might be because he likes taking care of Aziraphale and the angel so rarely lets him.

Aziraphale heaves a sigh but there’s a smile starting up on his face. “Oh, alright.”

* * *

They sit in the sand just before the point where the tide has soaked it through. Aziraphale stares out over the water and his face is bathed in bright white moonlight. 

“Maybe I am unhappy,” Aziraphale admits over the shushing waves. “But not all the time. I hope you know that.”

“I think it might be impossible for you to be unhappy all the time,” Crowley says wryly. “Something about angels and joy probably.”

Aziraphale laughs and shakes his head, falls silent. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

He tips his head onto Crowley’s shoulder and sighs. It makes Crowley’s heart race. With Aziraphale so close he can smell the sharp peppermint of his shampoo, imagines he can feel the warmth of him. Crowley feels hungry for Aziraphale and it’s these fleeting moments that he make him terribly, terribly aware.

“‘M sorry too,” Crowley says gruffly. His whole body feels like it’s thrumming with Aziraphale’s sudden nearness. Can he take his hand? Should he kiss him?

His body makes the decision for him, face leaning down as he tips Aziraphale’s chin up with delicate fingers, bringing their mouths together, soft as he can. Aziraphale’s skin is cold but it warms quickly as Crowley kisses him once, twice. It was supposed to be light and chaste but the hungry thing in Crowley wins out when Aziraphale whimpers at the touch of his teeth on his bottom lip. 

It’s easy enough to lay Aziraphale back in the sand, kiss him with teeth and tongue, run his hands over that beloved body. Crowley wants to be closer, wants warmth, wants Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale kisses back with as much desperation as Crowley feels and it’s thrilling. It feels like the long lost proof that Crowley has been looking for. Aziraphale wants him back.

Crowley has sunk into it, Aziraphale's warmth, his softness. It’s the only thing he feels and it’s _ good_. But then Aziraphale skates his hand over Crowley’s abdomen, moves to touch him between his legs and every inch of Crowley screams in protest.

He pulls away and falls onto his arse beside Aziraphale, breathing hard through a surge of fear so intense that his vision tunnels. 

Aziraphale sits up and reaches for him. Crowley flinches, forcing Aziraphale to withdraw and even thought Crowley can’t look at his face, he’s certain he must look hurt. Crowley is flinching away from him. Like a frightened animal. Pathetic. Fucking pathetic.

“Crowley, are you—”

“It’s _ fine_,” he snaps. His arse is getting wet from the sand and his skin is crawling. He’s angry. At himself he thinks. Or maybe the universe.

“You’re clearly not fine,” Aziraphale says back just as harshly. Then he sighs. “Look, it’s alright. We don’t have to—I’m not here for _ that_. I’m here for you.”

Oh fuck. He can’t hear Aziraphale say things like that. Not right then. Not when he feels like a fucking fish on a hook, gasping for breath and waiting to be gutted. 

Aziraphale is close by again, he can feel his warmth but it feels muffled. Everything is muffled and too loud all at once and then there’s a warm hand on his back. “It’s alright, dearheart. You’ll be alright.”

The repetitive motion eventually brings Crowley back to himself. He’s sweaty and shaken but Aziraphale is still whispering sweet things into his ear, breathing with him.

“Are you with me then?” Aziraphale asks quietly and Crowley nods.

“I think, perhaps, we’re pushing things a bit too fast, hm?” Aziraphale says, still rubbing his back and, fuck all, it’s soothing. “Why don’t we slow down? It’ll be good for both of us. In the long run.”

Crowley hates slow. Slow is boring. Slow is for other people.

But, in this case, he thinks Aziraphale might be right. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by LoudAlligator

They did go to Calais and it was fine. Fine by Aziraphale’s standards and he hoped by Crowley’s.

Aziraphale had reserved a nice hotel room with a private bedroom which he immediately gave to Crowley. Aziraphale stayed up in the tiny outer room, reading and resting in turns, not sure how to breach the barrier of a bedroom door. It was building up to be an impenetrable wall. 

When they came back from Calais, Crowley slumped out of the bookshop with a brief goodbye and Aziraphale hasn’t seen him since.

Aziraphale knows their little trip had its ups and downs but he thought there had been some mending there as well. Crowley had relaxed so much that last week in Calais, teasing and laughing and Aziraphale had hoped things were finally getting better.

Maybe Crowley simply needs some time alone after being together for two weeks. Crowley has always liked his space and Aziraphale can’t expect that to change. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling hurt and worried in turns. He’s always been good at occupying himself when he’s alone so that’s what he does. He manages for a week, doing what he likes best, going over translations, cross referencing, falling into old readings and new. 

And Crowley doesn’t reappear.

After everything that happened in Dover, and the quiet return to normalcy in Calais, Aziraphale tries to put aside his own insecurities. Crowley has always been distractible. This is not the first time in their acquaintance—nor the first time since the apocalypse—that Crowley has disappeared.

Reminding himself that he can’t expect Crowley to always be the one to reach out, Aziraphale swallows his pride and marches across town to Mayfair.

Crowley buzzes him up without even answering the intercom. Aziraphale grumbles all the way up the elevator, readying himself to have to explain why Crowley can’t just disappear and act like nothing has happened.

But then Crowley opens the door, looking surprised and excited. “Angel!” 

With that, he turns on his heel and disappears back into his apartment, leaving Aziraphale to stare after him in consternation. 

Accepting he’s not going to get much more of a welcome, Aziraphale frowns and follows after him, pondering the smell wafting through the apartment.

“Are you cooking?” he asks, trailing into the kitchen where Crowley has taken up post by the stove with a tea towel over his shoulder.

“What?” Crowley asks, moving his spatula in circles in the pan. 

Aziraphale comes up behind him and inspects the vegetables in the pan. “Stir fry?”

“I took a class on Thursday!” Crowley says, sounding adorably excited as he turns down the burner and opens the oven to check on what looks to be chicken. 

“Is that where you’ve been?”

Crowley stands up straight and frowns. “Wait...what day is it?”

“Tuesday!” Aziraphale says, scowling because he’s still frustrated but it’s hard because he loves seeing Crowley like this, energetic and happy.

“Ah shit,” Crowley says, turning back to him. “I meant to call and take you to dinner Saturday but I’ve been busy.”

Crowley pushes past him and opens the fridge which is stuffed to the brim with containers. 

“Have you just been...cooking for a week?” Aziraphale asks, stepping closer and looking over the various leftovers.

“I was out at a cafe trying to irritate some grad students by cutting the wifi speed and I saw a flyer which made me curious and then I thought about you. You like food. And I thought it might be interesting to make something. Like you were trying to in Dover. The asparagus disaster? So I took a class and when I came home I decided to experiment—”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, his words stuttering to a halt as Aziraphale presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. The refrigerator door swings shut. He hears Crowley inhale, delicate and shuddering, and when he looks up Crowley’s eyes are wide. “You are ridiculous and I love you.”

Crowley looks genuinely contrite when he says, “Sorry I forgot to call.”

“I should have stopped by sooner,” Aziraphale says, pulling Crowley against him and nosing over his neck. He smells like garlic and potatoes which should be a bit off putting but Aziraphale shouldn’t be surprised when it makes his mouth water. Perhaps he’s feeling peckish.

“Don’t apologize,” Crowley says, tugging away and frowning. “I’ll, er, I’ll do better.”

Aziraphale tangles their fingers together before he can pull away entirely because he doesn’t want to watch Crowley’s mood go out of the room like air out of a balloon. 

“I will admit I found myself a bit frustrated, but I think I forgot the way you can get,” Aziraphale says before he presses a kiss to the back of Crowley’s hand. It reminds him of the way he used to kiss Lilith’s hand when they were at dinner with the Dowling’s. All for show. But it’s not for show now.

Crowley looks at him askance. “What do you mean the way I can get?”

“Excited,” Aziraphale says, approaching the stove to inspect the stir fry. It smells very good. Like ginger and onions.

Crowley laughs, a self-deprecating thing. “Shouldn’t have forgotten to call.”

Aziraphale finally looks at him and notices the tilt to his mouth, the way it carves an unhappy line in his cheek. “Perhaps not, but I forgive you.”

Crowley snorts but there’s no heat in it as he lets Aziraphale embrace him again. “What’s for dinner darling? It seems we have a myriad of options.”

* * *

They end up having a small feast of sorts. 

Crowley lays out nearly all the containers of leftovers and they pick through it. Aziraphale decides his favorite creations are the pear clafouti and the tikka masala, but Crowley declares that his cottage pie could win awards. Aziraphale rolls his eyes fondly and swipes a bite of mashed potatoes. It is quite good.

“I was thinking,” Crowley says as dips his spoon into some custard, “that we could take another one of these classes. Together. You’d like it. All sorts of goodies.”

Aziraphale freezes where his fork is poised above the clafouti he wants another bite of. “U-us? Take a cooking class?”

Crowley looks down at the table and chews for a long time, longer than custard should warrant and Aziraphale thinks he’s misstepped. This is Crowley reaching out. Aziraphale handed him the suggestion of a holiday and that had been...decent. Perhaps Crowley is saying, _I want to spend time with you _in the same way Aziraphale had been.

“If you like,” Crowley says finally before snapping his fingers. A bottle of wine and two glasses appear between them.

“I would like it,” Aziraphale says decisively. “Very much.”

Crowley doesn’t smile at that but Aziraphale can see the joy writ in his face anyway.

* * *

Autumn turns to winter easily as if the world hadn’t almost ended in the summer. Aziraphale shouldn’t be surprised and yet he is when the first Christmas decorations begin to go up in the windows of the shops in Soho. For them, life is what it has always been and Aziraphale envies them their naivete.

Aziraphale stares out the window of his shop at the drizzle of the winter rain and sighs. Things are going well with Crowley. They’ve been doing things together they never would have been able to before. They took cooking classes and Aziraphale is still miserable at it. Though he does make a very good quiche which even Crowley grudgingly admits is passable.

They don’t see each other every day, Crowley getting up to his usual tricks on most days. But he doesn’t forget to call again and Aziraphale thinks it’s been months since they’ve gone more than three days without speaking. As it is, Crowley usually makes an appearance in the evening to drape himself dramatically over some surface in the bookshop and complain about all the things that are bothering him. Traffic, his plants, the latest level on Candy Crush. Aziraphale loves it. It’s like the old days. Like the old days should have been between them if Aziraphale hadn’t been so scared.

They don’t touch as much as Aziraphale wishes they would. That moment on the beach in Dover is fresh in his mind and he doesn’t think his heart can handle Crowley recoiling from him again so he’s letting Crowley set the pace. This has shaken out to a few chaste kisses a week and the occasional deeply erotic snogging session in Aziraphale’s backroom. These usually occur after Aziraphale absently tells Crowley he loves him or calls him darling without thinking. Crowley gets this look on his face like he wants to rip Aziraphale’s clothes off and then they end up kissing.

Today, Crowley had swung into the shop bearing takeaway from Aziraphale’s favorite curry place and Aziraphale had taken it happily and said, “You’re so good to me, darling.”

And Crowley had tossed aside his glasses and kissed him. He’d not stopped kissing him until they ended up on the sofa, takeaway entirely forgotten.

Now Crowley’s knees are bracketing his hips as he leans over Aziraphale, hands firm on his chest as he presses him against the back of the sofa. He’s rolling his hips like he can’t help himself and murmuring into Aziraphale’s mouth, sounds Aziraphale hasn’t heard in a very long time. Not since a certain cottage.

He has to forcefully remind himself to keep his hands on Crowley’s back. Crowley’s pace. He can’t hurry him just because he’s desperate to see him spread out, to make love to him. He just wants to _touch_ and…

An idea hits him suddenly and he feels like an absolute fool for not thinking of it sooner. As much as he wants to make love to Crowley, touching doesn’t need to be sexual. He thinks touching Crowley’s skin might do something to bank the steadily growing ache in his chest. Being with Crowley is its own joy, but Aziraphale wants him and that wanting has been his undoing.

He pulls back from Crowley who takes the opportunity to lick over his neck.

“Crowley,” he says, embarrassingly breathless because he is hard in his trousers and Crowley is a delicious weight on top of him and, like the rest of the last few decades, it’s exactly where he wants Crowley to be.

Crowley hums but doesn’t stop nibbling on his neck. 

“Do you trust me?” Aziraphale gasps which is a stupid way to begin, but he can’t process anything with the way Crowley’s mouth is sending pleasure straight between his legs. He’s starting to feel a delicious tension in his belly and he pointedly ignores it.

Crowley pulls back abruptly, nearly toppling over, only held upright by Aziraphale’s arms around him.

“What?”

Aziraphale blinks rapidly and tries not to be stung by Crowley’s shocked response. _Do you trust me_? 

They’re working on things. When Aziraphale says he loves Crowley after a long day together, they usually end up here trading kisses. It’s not the words Aziraphale wants, not _I love you_, but Aziraphale knows what it means. They’ll get to the words. He has to believe that. 

“I have an idea,” Aziraphale says and Crowley cocks his head, yellow eyes curious. He’s cut his hair recently so the sides are tight to his scalp. Aziraphale knows the texture will be mesmerizing when he finally runs his fingers over it.

“I’m listening,” Crowley says dubiously.

“I’d very much”—oh goodness, Aziraphale thinks his throat might be closing up—“I’d like to touch you.”

Crowley freezes. Aziraphale isn’t sure if that’s better than him pulling away or not.

“Just touch. No...nothing else. I want to hold you, Crowley. More than anything. I miss holding you.”

Crowley closes his eyes and his mouth goes tight for a moment before his head tips forward onto Aziraphale’s shoulder and he lets out a long groan. “Fuck, angel. How do you just say shit like that?”

“You used to _say shit like that_ all the time when we first began this,” Aziraphale points out teasingly but immediately wants to bite his tongue. They usually try to avoid mentions of their early relationship at the Dowlings’. When it had felt like a honeymoon.

“You swore,” Crowley points out without pulling back, petulant as a child but Aziraphale doesn’t say anything because he’s thankful he didn’t start a fight with his careless words. Perhaps that means things are getting better. Slowly but surely they’re mending.

“Yes, well, _shit, bugger, fuck,_” Aziraphale says because he can.

Crowley pulls back and grins manically. “Say twat.”

“Twat,” Aziraphale says, scowling but he’s pleased by how viciously delighted Crowley is.

Crowley kisses him fiercely which is a suitable distraction before Aziraphale’s arousal peaks again and he remembers his purpose. 

“Let me take off your shirt,” he says, fingers toying with the hem of Crowley’s blazer. He’s in three layers today, shirt, blazer, waistcoat, but Aziraphale is feeling patient and wants to remove them one by one.

Crowley pauses but lets Aziraphale push his blazer off his shoulders. It hits the floor with a soft sound that feels somehow loud in the quiet between them.

“What does this have to do with touching me?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale really does scowl at him because he can tell he’s being purposefully obtuse.

“You know very well what I meant,” Aziraphale says, hands going to Crowley’s waistcoat and working open the buttons.

“Yes, but say it,” Crowley says, words slick between his teeth, a sibilant hiss.

Aziraphale pauses, one hand flat on the concave of Crowley’s stomach. Crowley is thin, much smaller than Aziraphale, but he still feels soft here. He meets Crowley’s gaze. “I want to touch you. I want your clothes off. I want to press my chest against yours and feel you.”

Crowley’s face is immobile and then his nostrils flare, one corner of his mouth drawing back and Aziraphale feels so _good_ knowing that Crowley is about to say yes. To mock him. 

“Does that mean I get to take _your_ shirt off?” Crowley asks and even though he sounds confident, that humor Aziraphale adores threaded through his voice, his hands tremble when they come to Aziraphale’s bowtie.

“Yes, love. I wish you would,” Aziraphale says, slipping open the final button of Crowley’s waistcoat and watching it part. 

They stop kissing then. Aziraphale wants to keep this chaste and Crowley’s anxiety is mounting in the air between them as the silence grows charged. It’s huffing breaths and the slide of fabric as they remove each other’s clothes. Aziraphale is in his undershirt when he finally peels Crowley’s shirt over his head.

All he can think is that it has been too long since he has had his hands on Crowley’s skin. Before Crowley can even pull at his undershirt, Aziraphale wraps his arms around that thin torso and buries his face in Crowley’s neck. His bare skin smells like smoke and home and history, and Aziraphale never wants to let go again.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale breathes. He’s afraid he’s being silly for wanting this so much but it feels like a gift. Crowley shudders for a moment and Aziraphale knows better than to pull away and look at his face. He’ll see something upset there and Crowley will surely shut down. Aziraphale doesn’t want that. He wants this. For as long as Crowley will let him.

“Your shirt is still on,” Crowley says after quite some time. His voice is only slightly choked and Aziraphale pushes away his own desire to cry. This feels so much like relief, the break of a storm.

“You’re quite right,” Aziraphale says as lightly as he can. “Best fix that, yes?”

He lets Crowley manhandle him, tugging off the shirt and then pushing him back against the sofa cushions so Crowley can lie on top of him. It’s so much skin and while Crowley has never been particularly warm, his weight is comforting. The way his thin body curves over Aziraphale’s makes him feel safe. At peace.

“This was a good idea,” Crowley says at some indeterminate point. Aziraphale has been floating somewhere in the pleasant sensation of Crowley’s skin and the rumble of his words through his chest brings him back to the moment.

“I think so,” Aziraphale agrees, not moving except to tighten his arms around Crowley. It jostles him slightly, pushing his face closer to Aziraphale’s neck so Aziraphale can feel the warm ghost of his breath. 

And then Crowley is kissing his neck again and Aziraphale gasps.

“Is this alright?”

Aziraphale nods but feels frozen in position as Crowley mouths over his neck, slowly slithering down his body to press kisses over his chest.

“Are _you_ alright?” Aziraphale asks, hands finally carding through Crowley’s hair. The texture is as good as he imagined, the top silky as always and the sides a soft scratch over the pads of his fingers.

“Yeah. Just want to…” Crowley props his chin on Aziraphale’s sternum. “Just want to touch you. Like you said. None of...just this.”

Aziraphale is fairly certain he understands and something inside him relaxes. He doesn’t want things to move too quickly. He doesn’t want Crowley scrambling off the sofa with fear in his eyes. 

“Alright,” Aziraphale says and he means it. “Anything you’d like. I’m - I’m here with you.”

Crowley presses his nose into the smattering of hair that runs down the center of Aziraphale’s chest and then kisses it. It’s arousing. Of course it is. But now there’s no pressure in it. It doesn’t feel needy or hurried or desperate.

Aziraphale realizes suddenly that he feels very loved.

Crowley smooths his hands over Aziraphale’s sides and kisses his belly, flickering his tongue out slightly that way he does when he’s curious. He’s so overwhelmed by it that Aziraphale thinks his heart might break.

“Crowley?” he chokes out and Crowley head snaps up, gaze meeting his, a worry line scratched between his eyebrows.

“Kiss me,” Aziraphale says and despite the questioning look in Crowley’s eyes, he does. It’s soft and somewhat chaste and it only amplifies the radiant joy in Aziraphale’s chest.

He cups Crowley’s face in his hands when he pulls back and says with as much feeling as he can muster, “I love you. You are so dear to me and I am so thankful we are here together now.”

The normally drawn lines of Crowley’s face soften and Aziraphale thinks he’s about to be kissed again when a phone rings.

Crowley swears and rolls off of him onto the floor. “Sorry, that’s me.”

Crowley grabs his blazer and rifles through the pockets and retrieves his ringing phone. He drops it.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks, sitting up. His chest is cold now that Crowley isn’t in his arms, reflecting his heat.

“Harriet,” Crowley says, looking at the phone in shock . He picks it back up. Aziraphale gapes as Crowley swipes to answer.

“Hullo, Harriet, dearie,” Crowley says in that breathy brogue Aziraphale hasn’t heard in years. It’s like a punch to the gut even though Crowley is sitting in front of him, no shirt on, a confused look on his face. 

“Oh, yes,” Crowley says, humming a bit as Harriet talks. “I completely understand. Do you mind if I talk it over with Francis and get back to you?”

Harriet says something Aziraphale can’t hear.

“Of course, dearie. I’ll ring you when I know for certain.”

Crowley hangs up the phone and Aziraphale holds his breath.

“Harriet wants us to take Warlock for the holidays.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi folks! this fic is not abandoned but if you read any other fics by me you know that ive been absorbed in two other wips. i am steadily working on this fic and will still be updating (even if its a bit slower than it used to be)
> 
> thanks for sticking with me <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by LoudAlligator

"Lilith? Oh thank god."

Crowley does his best to pull on his nanny persona. It feels like an old sweater. Itching at the corners. Not quite right.

"I’m sorry to call suddenly but Tad's mother is sick and we're going to America,” Harriet says, rushing through the words and sounding somewhat panicked. “We aren't sure how long--if we’ll be there beyond the holidays and Warlock needs someone around during school break. I wouldn't ask...I know it's been a long time but there no one--"

Harriets voice breaks and that breaks something in Crowley, who, despite the intervening years is still stupidly fond of the woman.

When he hangs up, Aziraphale looks at him agog. Flabbergasted. Gobsmacked.

It's how Crowley feels.

"Well, what do you want to do?" Aziraphale asks when Crowley announces Harriets request.

Aziraphale is still shirtless and Crowley can see the pretty shadow on his side where the fat of his body rolls down and then out again. Francis had been larger than Aziraphale and that little roll had been there too. Crowley has an unbearable urge to push Aziraphale back against the sofa, grasp at his love handles and forget this strange request.

But Harriet.

And Warlock.

Who they had probably irrevocably fucked up by training to be the antichrist when he was, in fact, completely normal.

Crowley's sighs and wishes, not for the first time, that he was better at being a demon.

* * *

"Why are you packing all this stuff, angel?" Crowley asks petulantly from his perch in the back of the bookshop. "We don't need it."

"Last time," Aziraphale begins in his lightly holier than thou tone, "I regretted not bringing more things to entertain myself."

Harriet had said Warlock didn't need an inordinate amount of supervision and apparently Aziraphale had translated that as "bring enough things to occupy yourself for three weeks."

Three weeks. Three weeks on the Dowling estate, playacting the married couple. It should be easier now that they're actually together.

And yet Crowley's heart protests the thought.

He wants to be hopeful, wants to believe this might heal some of the old wounds, but the truth is that it’s already wearing at the scar tissue. He’s afraid and it hurts.

But fuck, if hes going to let the angel know that. He remembers how Aziraphale was in Dover, constantly concerned, wrapping himself up in worries.  _ I’m worried you’ll fall apart _ .

He can’t have that again. He’s already embarrassed himself by having a panic attack when he’d rather be getting into Aziraphale’s trousers. Stupid.

Crowley reminds himself he is a demon. He should be better at handling this.

Crowley snaps himself a fully outfitted carpet bag and into his old nanny best. He lengthens his hair, shivering at the tingling in his scalp. He can feel the silken slide of his slip underneath his blouse and trumpet skirt. It’s old and familiar and soothing the same way pressing into a bruise can feel like relief. 

Aziraphale rounds the corner of the bookshelves and freezes, eyes going wide behind his little round glasses. “Oh.”

Crowley’s heart is in his throat--the place it seems to like to be these days--but he smirks anyway. “Like what you see, Francis?” he asks, popping out one hip and Aziraphale’s face flushes pleasantly red.

It’s that old thrill of control that Crowley chased for so long and it’s heady to have it back in his hands.

But Aziraphale, once the haze of his blush fades, only smirks as he approaches Crowley, winding one warm arm around his waist and tugging him close. “You know I do.”

Crowley’s a bit overwhelmed by that. He’s not sure what to say but then he’s saved from having to say anything by Aziraphale’s teasing addition of, “Sugar plum.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and pinches Aziraphale’s hip. He wriggles away from Crowley’s wandering hands and gives him an overdramatic scowl. “Play nice... _ Lily _ .”

Crowley summons his umbrella and threatens to whack Aziraphale with it but Aziraphale snatches it from his hand easily. “Prickly today. Any particular reason?” Aziraphale asks lightly.

Crowley wonders if he’s finally developed the ability to pick up on a damn clue. Doesn’t matter though because Crowley skates over the topic easily. “The car will be here soon,  _ dearie _ .”

Aziraphale sighs and goes about finishing his packing. “It will be nice to see Warlock again now that all this apocalypse business is behind us.”

Crowley leans against the wall and watches Aziraphale putter around. “Hopefully, he’s not always like he was at his birthday party. Bloody hellspawn.”

“If he’s hellspawn, we’ll know who to blame, won’t we?” Aziraphale says with a telltale smirk. Crowley sort of wants to hit him with the umbrella again. 

* * *

Harriet welcomes them with flustered hugs, in a flurry of activity. Apparently, Tad is already in America and Harriet is set to fly out that afternoon.

“I really am so thankful,” Harriet says, holding Lilith’s hands like a lifeline. “I was in a panic about all of this.”

“It’s alright, dear,” Crowley says, patting her hand. Francis comes up beside him and nods.

“We’re happy to help Ms. Dowling,” he says in his silly accent. It’s hardly the same as the one he used before but Harriet is distracted enough not to notice.

“Warlock’s in the drawing room,” Harriet says. “If you want to go say hello. I’ve got to finish packing.”

They wind their way through the house back to the drawing room they’d been in for so many Christmas parties and late night drinks. When Crowley eases open the door, it’s to see Warlock on the sofa, curled up in the corner playing some sort of handheld video game. 

He glances up when Crowley walks in. He’s got the sort of haircut that might be considered fashionable but that Crowley knows from experience is a pain. It hands all in your eyes and constantly brushing hair out of your face is hardly cool.

“Nanny!” Warlock cries but then glances down at his game when a despondent melody plays. “Aw fuck.”

“Language, young man,” Aziraphale says, bustling up to his side. It sends a wave of deja vu over Crowley. He can taste the lipstick on his mouth, feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s --Francis’s--Aziraphale’s body through the brocade of his own jacket. It’s every time they’ve been here before and yet it’s so different.

Aziraphale glances at him and a slight frown steals over his face, pulling at his mouth, buck teeth and all. He squeezes Crowley’s elbow without asking, a comforting thing. Fuck, Crowley loves him. Love him so much it hurts.

He stuffs the feeling away and turns his attention back to Warlock who is already barrelling across the room to engulf Crowley in a hug with his tiny eleven-year-old arms. 

“I can’t believe you guys said yes to coming out here. I asked Mum and she said there was no way. I told her though,” Warlock said, talking so fast that the words were smashed together. He gave Francis a hug too even if it wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as the one for Nanny.

It warms Crowley’s heart a little which is stupid but he’s always had two soft spots. Aziraphale and kids. And these three weeks are going to hit those spots pretty hard.

"Let's go say goodbye to your mummy," Crowley says, herding Warlock back to the main hall so they can see Harriet off.

The boy grumbles but does as he's told and Crowley sincerely hopes that, despite everything, Warlock might be a reasonable kid. Antichrist or no.

* * *

It's a sedate evening with Warlock mostly entertaining himself on the couch while Francis and Nanny watch quiz shows. Warlock doesn't seem to mind the noise but does occasionally swear at his game which has Francis reprimanding him.

It's sweet and domestic and Crowley feels oddly at home. 

Crowley hates it. It reminds him of how happy he was once, convinced that he was loved and that years of pining had finally ended. 

_ Aziraphale loved you then and he loves you know _ , Crowley’s least favorite and most reasonable side of his mind tells him. 

The less reasonable side sneers in response and he tries to ignore it. That’s what he’s been trying to do since the apocalypse, be reasonable, ignore the festering hate inside him. 

But occasionally, as they sit on the couch and watch the telly, Francis -- Aziraphale -- glances over at him with a small smile and squeezes his knee like he can tell Crowley needs emotional support. Stupid.

When they finally go to their appointed room with its oversized en suite and walk-in the closet. Crowley’s heart drops at the reminder: only one bed.

He thinks of Japan and  _ different feelings _ and the way Aziraphale used to drape himself over Crowley when they slept.

He’s spiraling. He doesn’t want to be but he can’t help it. Aziraphale bustles into the bathroom without even glancing at the bed because clearly he’s fine and isn’t panicking. He doesn’t have the same hang ups Crowley does. A bed is not a fraught place for him. Crowley hates the memories and yet he wants Aziraphale next to him. He wants to feel that warm body drifting closer. 

Crowley drops onto the edge of the bed and sighs, taking off his nanny glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. There are so many things he wants and doesn't know how to ask for. He thinks of Aziraphale that day when Harriet called, nervously fumbling through asking to hold Crowley. To touch him.

He’d been so embarrassed and awkward and yet he’d done it. In the end, it had been worth it. It had been nice. The touch of Aziraphale’s skin had quieted the hungry thing that kept writhing inside Crowley’s ribcage.

If Aziraphale can be brave, shouldn't Crowley?

Aziraphale putters out of the bathroom in ridiculous striped pajamas and Crowley makes a decision.

"Could you help me with my hair?" he asks and Aziraphale starts as if he’d expected total silence. 

“Hair?" he stammers and Crowley nods, ignoring the lump in his throat. It’s mortifying, asking for things.

"I always liked when you did. Back then."

Crowley bites down on the wave of discomfort that comes with mentioning the last time they were with the Dowlings. This is different. They are different.

Aziraphale's shoulders drop with relief and a small indulgent smile spreads across his face. It's endearing with his ruddy cheeks and buck teeth. Crowley is reminded of how utterly and stupidly in love he is that his heart still races even though Aziraphale is, by all standards and too Aziraphale’s own purpose, ugly.

Aziraphale comes besides him and brushes his hair back from his forehead. "Of course, I will, dearest," he says softly. "You simply surprised me."

His soft words make Crowley shiver and when the first pin slides against his scalp, curl releasing, goosebumps raise all over his body. The hair unfurls and kisses his neck. Aziraphale is so close, his fingers deft and caring. Arousal pricks through him as Aziraphale runs his fingers through each curl.

Aziraphale works, removing each pin with utter care. Despite how fast his heart is beating, Crowley can feel himself relax.

"I always loved doing this," Aziraphale says quietly. A boar brush appears in his hand and he starts to brush out Crowley's hair. It's so soothing that Crowley’s eyes drift shut. "You could be so prickly but when you let me do this, you seemed happy. Or perhaps content is a better word."

Crowley grunts. "M’not prickly," he says in mild protest.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to his head. "Why don't you change and go to bed, my dear," Aziraphale says. "I can stay up tonight. Get some reading done."

Crowley’s eyes snap open. No. He doesn’t want Aziraphale in the bloody chair across the room. He wants--

"Share the bed with me," he bites out before he can stop himself, before old fears take over. 

Aziraphale's freezes. "Are you--are you sure?"

Crowley nods and swallows and swallows but nothing stops the closing of his throat. "Yeah I - I miss it. Miss you. There."

"Oh," Aziraphale says, eyebrows up as his hands flutter in front of his belly. “Well, I--”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley rushes to say even as his stomach turns to ice. It hurts but what else is there? “Just thought I’d ask.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale says, just as fast. Just as nervous. “It’s quite alright. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.

Crowley surges to his feet and rips off his jacket. “Wouldn’t ask if it made me uncomfortable,” he snarls, turning away from Aziraphale and trying to focus on the zip of his skirt. He feels stupid, raw, unbearably so. He can’t look at the angel right then. 

When he’s down to his slip, he finally turns around and Aziraphale has that look again. The old one. The one that meant he wanted Crowley even back then. An old urge to take advantage of him rises up in Crowley. He could lure Aziraphale into bed, get those hands on him, chase the feeling of being wanted until he convinces himself it’s love. His stomach turns. That was how it used to be, warped and ugly between them. He doesn’t want that so he pushes the ill-advised urge away. 

This is so exhausting. All this work between the two of them. He sighs as he lets everything else slip away. “It’s fine, angel. Do what you want.”

Aziraphale scowls, shoulders going back, a sure sign he’s about to protest. “I am getting in that bed with you and we are getting over this.”

Crowley blinks at his determined tone. More drill sergeant than anything. He watches as Aziraphale climbs into bed and settles against the white pillows. 

Bewildered, Crowley goes through the motions of getting ready for bed. He brushes his teeth and washes off his makeup, trying to avoid his own eyes in the mirror. 

Aziraphale is sitting up when Crowley returns. He’s thumbing through a book and looks up when Crowley re-enters the room. 

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he says, putting aside his book. “I think I got a bit forceful.”

Crowley hesitates and then forces himself to get in the bed. The sheets are already warmed by Aziraphale’s body, the heat stealing over him, giving him comfort. 

It is difficult. This all is. But he loves Aziraphale. Has for ages.

And when he looks at Aziraphale, he sees the same feelings reflected back, love. There’s anxiety stitched into the edges of the expression. An anxiety Crowley knows too well.

“It’s alright,” Crowley says finally, turning on his side and curling towards Aziraphale. “One of us has to be forceful, I think.”

Aziraphale’s hand comes to rest on Crowley’s head, gently petting his hair, an old habit. “I’m afraid of pushing you into something you don’t want,” he confesses and Crowley’s heart twists.

“Since when have I ever kept my opinion to myself?” Crowley retorts. His tone would usually be more acerbic but he’s too busy leaning into Aziraphale’s touch.

Aziraphale pauses in his movements. “More often than you think, my dear.”

Oh.

Right. 

“Well, I’ll do better then,” Crowley says, tucking his nose into Aziraphale’s hip as Aziraphale runs his hand down his back. His slip slides and bunches under the touch.

“Perhaps we will do better together,” Aziraphale offers.

Crowley certainly hopes so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am back on this train and i hope to return to regular updates!!!  
i believe this fic will have 4 or 5 more chapters and then an epilogue.  
thanks all for reading and sticking with this fic even though it languished in the background while i got sucked into other stories <3 <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta by LoudAlligator <3

Crowley is, as he has always been, a bit of an octopus in his sleep. Aziraphale is not tired enough to sleep so he lies awake as Crowley drifts closer and closer across the bed, one arm coming around Aziraphale’s middle and then a leg tossed over his.

Aziraphale missed seeing Crowley like this, all his adorable. Crowley snuffling into his shoulder and wriggling around. Crowley’s face contorting and relaxing in various modes of sleep. Every shift just reminds Aziraphale how much he loves the demon, has loved him, will love him. He wraps his arm around Crowley’s shoulder and tugs him closer, letting his cheek come to rest on Aziraphale’s chest. It was Aziraphale’s favorite snuggling position from the past and he is so grateful that they’ve finally jumped the hurdle of sharing a bed. 

It had been awkward and difficult but so utterly worth it because now he has this again. Perhaps that’s the moral to the story. He needs to press a little more to move them forward. Worry still winds its way through him. What if he pushes Crowley to a breaking point? There’s been so much hurt and he doesn’t want there to be any more.

He runs his hand down Crowley’s back and encounters the silky material of his slip. Aziraphale’s stomach jumps, newfound desire crashing into old memories of exactly this. Lying in bed with Crowley in the early morning, slow touches, easy kisses. But those memories are tainted with grief and hurt and it creates a messy slurry in his thoughts. He tells himself it's alright. This is different. He’s allowed to feel desire for Crowley. There is no divine retribution for loving him. There is no retribution from Crowley. This relationship is not the joke that Aziraphale once feared. Crowley is not using him. He’s not bored and trying to pass the time.

Aziraphale stares at the ceiling and continues to rub his thumb over the wing of Crowley’s shoulder blade. He wishes Crowley would say he loved him. He wants to hear it again, both for himself and so he can say it back. So that they can believe in each other after all these years.

There is still guilt inside him, dark and sickly, for all the times he did not say it. He had been so stuck in his own foolish worries. He doesn’t want to be stuck any more.

Seeing Crowley dressed as Lilith for the first time in years had struck at the vulnerable places in Aziraphale’s heart. He had looked lovely, as always. But that dark lipstick, those unique glasses, they spoke of a worse time between them. A time when heartache had been constant. But in it, Aziraphale still feels that bright point of hope. Crowley loves him--loved him--and they are fixing things, one slow step forward and sometimes two steps back. Aziraphale isn’t sure yet how this particular event will shake out. But here on the Dowling estate, among the familiar-yet-different topiary and the dormant rose bushes, Aziraphale hopes there can be healing. 

Crowley had looked at him the night before, skittish and nervous, _Share the bed with me_. And now here they are: dawn creeping through the window and Aziraphale has spent most of the night thinking. 

Four months since the apocalypse. The world is no longer ending. There is hope.

And Crowley is here.

Crowley grumbles into his chest and flops over, elbow knocking into his side. He grunts in surprise as Crowley stirs, blinking open those devastating eyes. Crowley smiles upon seeing him. That a smile is his first reaction to realizing they are in bed together makes Aziraphale’s heart warm.

“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale says, unable to stop his own smile. “Did you sleep alright?”

Crowley raises his arms over his head and stretches, his spine cracking in sharp little pops. “Yeah. Did I drool on you?”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. Happiness slides through him like a rush of warm water. He savors it. “Only a little. You seemed quite relaxed.”

Crowley rises into a seated position and pecks Aziraphale on the cheek. He’s wholly unprepared for it and wishes he could chase his mouth, kiss him in the soft morning light and press him back against the pillows. Make love the way they used to in those early days in a cottage that smelled of freshly tilled earth and lavender.

He smiles instead and brushes Crowley's hair from his face. "I think I missed the way you look in the morning."

Crowley’s nose scrunches up, followed by his mouth, like he’s smelled something weird. "Soppy. You’re being soppy."

Aziraphale scoffs before pushing Crowley down and nuzzling his neck. Crowley yelps as Aziraphale says, "Soppy? Me? Never. Just terribly in love with you. And pleased to say it."

Crowley uselessly tussles with him, as always not strong enough to throw him off and finally huffs and goes still, red staining his cheeks. "You wretch."

Aziraphale kisses him full on the mouth, sleep staleness be damned, because he wants to and he can. He likes Crowley like this, sleep-warm and relaxed. Even if he teases and pouts and is generally Crowley. That’s what Aziraphale loved for so long. Still does. 

Crowley grunts in surprise but his arms come around Aziraphale’s neck as he melts into the kiss. 

It turns heated quickly, the sun dousing the bedroom in light, Aziraphale trying not to moan into Crowley’s mouth, trying not to grind down and see if he’s as affected as Aziraphale is. But it doesn’t matter because Crowley is arching into him, the fabric of his nightgown slipping under Aziraphale’s hands. He’s losing control of the situation. He’s not sure if he cares. Crowley feels so good and it feels so right to start the morning like this.

"Fuck, angel," Crowley gasps as he pushes up against Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale can feel the damp heat of him and his stomach twists with want. He remembers pulling Crowley’s pleasure from him for hours, tongue and fingers at work between his legs. He remembers how Crowley tastes, exactly how he liked to be touched. He’d memorized it once, in a fit of fear, surrounded by thoughts of _this will never happen again so savor it_. 

Crowley’s hands slip down his back and push up his pyjama shirt. The cool touch of his fingers brings reality crashing down on Aziraphale. Too fast. He’s terrified it will be too much and Crowley will recoil. His delicate heart could never handle it so he pulls away.

Crowley stares at him. His eyes are glassy, lips swollen. For a few stolen kisses, he looks wrecked. "What are you…"

"Best not get carried away," Aziraphale says, levering himself out of bed and Crowley’s gaze shutters.

"Right. Antichrist--well, Warlock, to see to," Crowley mutters, an edge of bitterness in his clipped tones. "Need the bathroom, Francis?"

The name is like a gate closing between them. The firm snap of a latch as Crowley crosses the room. It’s his old saunter, a swish of hips. The come hither slip of satin over skin.

Aziraphale, for once, recognizes silk for the armor it can be.

"It’s all yours, my dear," he says weakly as he watches Crowley shut the bathroom door.

**

Warlock is...energetic.

He varies wildly from being able to sit in his room and play video games for hours to rocketing around the house with a frenetic energy that Aziraphale can’t help but associate with Crowley. Not that he would ever say as much. He can just picture the look that would earn him.

Crowley is armored from head to toe in black. His expression is cool and whenever Aziraphale leans into him, he gives him a look that is all Lilith, cold and aloof. It was that moment in the bedroom when Aziraphale pulled back that made Crowley so thoroughly retreat into his nanny-persona even when Warlock isn’t in the room. He knows Crowley read Aziraphale’s actions as a rejection that it wasn’t meant to be. He supposes he deserves that. Even if it is a bit frustrating because all he was doing was trying to protect Crowley from his own less than chaste intentions.

Aziraphale sighs as Warlock barrels into the sitting room. “It’s snowing!” he yells even though it doesn’t seem to be a thing that requires yelling.

“Oh, is it?” Aziraphale says, letting Warlock drag him to the window. Sure enough, little flurries are beginning to settle across the grounds. 

“It’s going to snow and then I’m going to make a snowman,” Warlock declares, pressing his nose into the glass. “Can I make a snowman?”

He looks up at Aziraphale with wide eyes and Aziraphale smiles down at him, feeling very much the pottering gardener from so many years ago. “There’ll have to be enough snow but I don’t see why not.”

Warlock whoops and runs out of the room, leaving Aziraphale in his wake.

Crowley is watching them from his perch on the sofa. One of his eyebrows is raised carefully about the lens of his sunglasses. 

“What’s that look for?” Aziraphale asks, reminding himself not to drop the Francis act. Three weeks of keeping it up everywhere but their shared bedroom will get awfully tiring. Back in the cottage he had at least been able to use his normal voice in the off hours.

“Warlock’s going to walk all over you,” Crowley says and one corner of his mouth pulls back, a tiny smile that Aziraphale wants to horde close to his heart. 

“It’s simply a snowman,” Aziraphale says. “That’s hardly something I should say _no_ to.”

Aziraphale regrets his laissez-faire attitude when, the next morning, Warlock is dumping snow into his hair and cackling wildly. Nanny watches from the side of the garden, bundled up to her ears but Aziraphale can see the smirk on her face.

They’d shared the bed again but Crowley had slipped out of it in the morning before any conversation could be had. Aziraphale had mourned the lack of good morning kisses.

“Nanny, come help!” Warlock says, but Crowley stays firmly by the naked hedge. Most of the greenery on the estate is dormant, instead twisted into gnarled branches, no life in sight.

“I have my dignity, young man,” Crowley says archly and Warlock boos and throws a snowball at her. It misses but only through demonic interference.

“I thought we were making a snowman,” Aziraphale says plaintively and Warlock whirls on him, snow peppering his black hair.

“No! Snowmans are boring. Snowball fights are better,” Warlock declares and goes back to making snowballs that Aziraphale is fairly certain will end up colliding with his body at some point.

He kneels down next to Warlock. “Perhaps,” he whispers. “If we team up, we can get Lilith to join us. What do you say?”

Warlock grins wickedly. “That sounds awesome.”

They make their own little mountains of snowballs--keeping up the ruse that the two of them will be having their own fight--but once their piles are large enough, Aziraphale winks at Warlock and the ambush begins.

Crowley can’t divert snowballs imbued with divine accuracy.

Warlock unleashes a furious battle cry and launches snowballs at Crowley who yelps in surprise, putting his hands up to no avail. He tries to hide behind the hedges but Warlock dashes after, snowballs tucked into the crook of his elbow.

Aziraphale lobbies his own assault and when they finally run out of snowballs, Warlock is pink-cheeked and breathing hard and Crowley looks ready to skin Aziraphale alive. Some of his perfectly pinned curls have come undone and his glasses are splattered with melted snow. 

Aziraphale grabs the length of his thick winter scarf and teasingly tugs on it until Crowley submits to a kiss. It’s softer than Aziraphale expects given his recent behavior and he cherishes it. 

“Gross!” Warlock says, pretending to retch. Before Aziraphale can reprimand him, he’s off like a shot, running across the drive and into the house.

Crowley squirms away and scowls as he takes off his glasses to clean them. “I told you he’s a monster and you shouldn’t encourage him.”

“It’s just a bit of fun,” Aziraphale says, smirking as he needles Crowley. The demon huffs and Aziraphale surges up to kiss it from his mouth. With Warlock gone, Aziraphale has no qualms about deepening the kiss. His whole body grows alert, focused only on the point of contact between them. His heart is warm and glowing. Crowley is here. Crowley is kissing him. It’s so close to a happiness Aziraphale always yearned for in those bleak winters half a decade ago.

Crowley, for all his prickly irritation, relaxes against him, crossed arms unfolding and coming to rest on Aziraphale’s hips. The snow on Crowley’s jacket melts in the heat between them, soaking Aziraphale’s shirt but he doesn’t care. He cups Crowley’s jaw carefully and slips his tongue into his mouth, rewarded by a sharp sound of pleasure in Crowley’s throat.

He withdraws slowly and kisses the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “I love you,” he says, putting the words out into a world muffled by snow. Crowley glances at the ground, serpentine eyes flickering down and then back to Aziraphale’s face. His nostrils flare.

“Yeah,” Crowley says haltingly. “I mean - me too.”

A little to the left of the I love you Aziraphale keeps hoping for but it sends his heart careening regardless. A reckless laugh bursts from him as he pulls Crowley close, savoring the way his body notches awkwardly--perfectly--against his.

He tucks his nose into Crowley’s neck, ignoring the wetness of his collar. He smells like snow and lavender.

“We should get inside, angel,” Crowley says quietly. “It’s supper time.”

Aziraphale nods but he’s reluctant to let Crowley go just yet. He squeezes him tightly a final time before pulling back. 

Crowley slips on his glasses and graces him with an awkward smile. Aziraphale laces their fingers together, lifting Crowley’s hand to kiss the back of it through his glove. 

“Supper sounds lovely,” Aziraphale says and they walk across the drive together.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by LoudAlligator
> 
> quick note: i know Warlock is American, but I have him call Harriet Mum because I have to think growing up in another country does make you pick up on some phrasing

Crowley wants to fuck.

That’s the long and short of it.

He doesn’t know if it’s some sort of Pavlovian response to being at the Dowling’s or—Satan forbid—Francis’s _teeth_, but he thinks about it _all_ _the time_. 

He watches Aziraphale get ready for bed, puttering around in his loose tartan pajamas and he wants to touch his strong shoulders, his soft belly. He wants to push him back against the soft pillowed mattress and kiss his cheeks, his forehead, his stupid, ridiculous mouth. 

He wants to be fucked.

Aziraphale hasn’t noticed.

He seems entirely content to putter around, to tease and to chase Warlock through the house while the child raises hell. 

So Crowley sits, and Crowley scowls, and Crowley thinks about skin and heat and getting absolutely railed at the worst times. Namely, while Warlock tries to show him something called Animal Crossing which Crowley doesn’t give a shit about but which he’s good at faking interest in.

Aziraphale sleeps in bed beside him every night and that somehow makes it worse. Before  _ that _ little development, Crowley had his physical feelings well in hand. There were so many other things to feel that maybe he didn’t notice. But now Aziraphale is there, warm and handsome, and Crowley notices. 

Except Aziraphale shies away from him. It’s that time at the beach, those weeks in Japan. It’s the months cuddled by the fire while Crowley held out his heart over and over again only to have it handed back to him bloodied and broken. Crowley’s stomach curdles to think Aziraphale doesn’t want him anymore. Aziraphale says he loves him. Slides into bed at night and kisses him chastely. But ever since that first morning it never gets out of hand. 

Aziraphale is sitting across from him at the dining room table, using those foul teeth to chomp on a sandwich and not noticing that Crowley’s trying to burn reciprocal lust into his skull with the sheer intensity of his gaze. Aziraphale keeps chomping, and Crowley is sick of it.

He stands up, chair scraping behind him. “I’m going on a walk.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “Make sure to bundle up, dear. It’s quite chilly.”

Crowley wants to throw the rind of the orange he was eating directly at Aziraphale’s head. He doesn’t because he knows that will do nothing except probably start a fight so Crowley just stomps out of the room and runs directly into Warlock.

The boy looks up at him with big blue eyes and his brow furrows. “Nanny, are you upset?”

“No,” Crowley bites out, not in the mood.

“You have that look Mum gets when she’s upset with Dad,” Warlock explains and Crowley thinks if he were older, he’d probably have quite a piercing look but as it is, the way he looks up at him feels guileless. “Are you upset with Francis?”

Crowley weighs his options. This is an eleven-year-old. Not a therapist. And yet it would be  _ nice _ to say yes, I’m upset with Aziraphale for being a giant, oblivious idiot, to someone who isn’t his own brain.

“A little, yes,” Crowley admits.Warlock frowns.

“Mum and Dad get cranky around Christmas too. Usually because Mum doesn’t like her present,” Warlock says thoughtfully. “Did Francis get you a bad present?”

Crowley realizes suddenly that Christmas was two days ago. They hadn’t done anything. Not even for Warlock. He drops down to be eye level with the kid and says, “We forgot Christmas didn’t we?”

Warlock shrugs. “Mum and Dad always have that awful Christmas party so it was sort of nice not to have to do anything? I dunno. It’s not a big deal.”

Crowley scowls. “But it’s Christmas. You should have had gifts or at least a good dinner.”

“We did a Christmas thing before Mum left for America,” Warlock points out. “And the snowball fight was super fun so it’s not like Christmas was lame or anything.”

Crowley sighs. “Regardless, I’m sorry we forgot. We don’t exactly celebrate Christmas.”

“Are you atheists?” Warlock asks.

Crowley laughs at that. “Something like that.”

That night, while he and Aziraphale get ready for bed, Crowley mentions it. “Did you know we forgot Christmas?”

Aziraphale sits up straight and gasps. “Oh, dear. Did we really?”

“It was two days ago apparently,” Crowley says, very distracted by the flash of chest hair he can see peeking above the buttons of Aziraphale’s pajama shirt.

Aziraphale sighs and shakes his head. “We are awful at this.”

“Warlock didn’t mind. He said it was nice because he hates his parents' Christmas party,” Crowley says as he shrugs off his jacket. He leaves on his slip because he’s hopeless. He can’t help but think of Aziraphale’s eyes on him all those years ago, the promise and the heat. He’s desperate to see it again.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice.

“Those parties were quite trying,” Aziraphale says, raising his voice to follow Crowley into the bathroom. He runs the water and scrubs his face down. 

“The boy seemed more concerned that we were on the outs than anything,” Crowley says absentmindedly. Then he stares at himself in the mirror and clamps his mouth shut. Oh shit.

Aziraphale appears in the doorway, a little wrinkle between his eyebrows. “On the outs? I wasn’t aware we were on the outs.”

“Um,” Crowley says.

“Are you angry with me?” Aziraphale asks, a tightness to his voice that doesn’t bode well for Crowley.

“No,” Crowley says abruptly and Aziraphale’s eyes flash.

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” Aziraphale says, jabbing a finger into Crowley’s exposed sternum. This is definitely the beginning of a fight but that one touch manages to ignite Crowley. He wants to grab that hand and push Aziraphale down onto the four-poster bed. He wants to bite at his mouth and his skin and paint his feelings in some way that doesn’t require words.

He wants to fuck.

“So what if I am? I’m allowed to have feelings,” Crowley grates out.

“Of course you are,” Aziraphale practically shouts. “But I haven’t  _ done _ anything.”

“Exactly,” Crowley shouts back. “You never do anything. I’m over here wearing lingerie and fucking trying to get you to  _ notice me _ and you won’t even kiss me with tongue.”

Aziraphale jerks back, eyes going wide. “That’s what this is about? Kissing?”

“No,” Crowley snaps. “It’s about fucking.”

Crowley pushes out of the bathroom and stomps across the room. There are plenty of bedrooms in the house. He’s sure he can find one to sulk in. One that doesn’t have Aziraphale inside it, where he doesn’t have to think about being ignored.

“You want to have sex?” Aziraphale asks incredulously, still standing in the doorway to the bathroom. Crowley whirls on him.

“Glad you picked up on it now that I’ve  _ laid it out for you _ . Yes. Yes, I want to fuck. In general. But you in particular,” Crowley hisses. The hair on the back of his neck is standing on end and he is angry. Angry at Aziraphale and angry at himself for getting angry. He’s ruined everything. There was a delicate balance here and Crowley should have shut up and waited. He should have known better than to push. That’s how you break things.

“I think us having sex is a bad idea,” Aziraphale says, crossing the room and holding out his hands like he’s afraid Crowley is gearing up to lash out. 

“Oh, a bad idea?” Crowley sneers. “This is all a bad idea. Demon. Angel. Never going to be on the same page, are we?”

“I’m trying, Crowley!” Aziraphale says, stomping his foot. “I just can’t see why you suddenly need this from me!”

“Because I love you,” Crowley nearly screams. The words leave his mouth and he doesn’t have time to regret them because Aziraphale is across the room in a flash, hands sunk into his hair, and mouth pressed against his.

Soft hands cup his face and Aziraphale kisses him. Once. Twice. Softly. Like Crowley is cherished. 

“Crowley,” he says, breathless. “Darling.”

His voice hitches and Crowley kisses him again. It feels better. It feels good. Aziraphale’s hands are warm on his face and it feels like slipping into a bath after a long, awful day. Aziraphale is backing him against the bed and pushing him down on the blankets. His hands grip Crowley’s hips as they kiss messily, scooting up the bed until Crowley’s head hits the pillows.

His whole body is crying out with relief at these simple touches. This is what he wanted. Aziraphale is warm and his kisses are everything and when Aziraphale’s tongue strokes his, he moans. His body lifts of its own accord, rolling up into Aziraphale’s. 

“Please, let me,” Crowley begs, fingers going to Aziraphale’s buttons and trying to slide off his shirt. “Please. Please.”

Aziraphale kisses the words from his mouth and lets Crowley push his shirt off his shoulders. He’s so gorgeous. The white blond hair on his chest, the swell of his stomach. This is the body Crowley made love to for years, not the soft thing that he rested against in the bookshop weeks ago, skin to skin.

Aziraphale is biting at Crowley’s collarbones and Crowley is starting to feel something unpleasant. A harsh, cold drip sliding down his spine. The opposite of what he should be feeling. There is no liquid heat. Only this aching coldness making a home in his insides while memories push their way out of boxes Crowley thought better left sealed.

Crowley pushing Aziraphale back against the baby’s breath sheets while Aziraphale wouldn’t look him in the eye. Crowley sinking to his knees in the cottage’s tiny kitchen. 

_ I love you _ .

_ Thank you _ .

His stomach churns as Aziraphale pulls up his slip, kissing his knees and then his thighs. Goosebumps break out over his skin. It should feel good but it makes his pulse crest with fear and horror. He’s hurtling towards a precipice he doesn’t want to reach. He doesn’t want to feel himself fall. Crowley tries to breathe.

You want him, he forcibly reminds himself as Aziraphale runs his hands up his thighs.

The slip is up around his waist and Aziraphale is looking at him with awe. “You are so lovely,” the angel breathes, dipping his head to kiss the ridge of one of Crowley’s hipbones.

Is Crowley breathing? He’s not. Does he want to? He can’t remember.

Aziraphale’s hand ghosts over the waistband of Crowley’s knickers as he kisses his way up his body. Lips meet Crowley’s and Aziraphale freezes entirely.

“Crowley?” he asks, pulling back. There’s that concerned look again.

Crowley realizes very suddenly that he is going to cry. Fuck, Aziraphale doesn’t want to see that. Crowley needs to be stronger than this. Better. If he’s better, then they can move forward. He can’t keep falling apart like this.

It seems Aziraphale knows things have shifted inside Crowley’s mind because his weight disappears one moment and the next Crowley is against a warm chest and broad hands are running down his back. 

“I thought you wanted—”

“I do,” Crowley says fiercely through the drip of tears. He’s an idiot. If he didn’t have feelings they’d be fucking right now and Crowley would be able to feel loved for once in his goddamn—

Oh.

“Shit,” he hisses, pushing his face into Aziraphale’s sternum.

The angel cradles his head and makes little soothing noises. “I love you, Crowley. I don’t know if that’s what you need to hear. But I do. I’m glad you said it back. But you should know that physical love isn’t a prerequisite for how I feel. I want you to be happy. With me. However that looks.”

Crowley grunts in frustration before sitting up and scrubbing at his eyes. “I need a cigarette.”

Aziraphale watches him as he gets out of bed, rummaging through his belongings until he fishes out a half finished pack.

“Best not smoke in here,” Aziraphale says, standing too and shrugging his shirt back on. “Why don’t we go on a walk?”

Crowley lets Aziraphale bully him into a jacket and scarf and they take themselves outside. The snow from before has melted into small icy patches that glow in the moonlight. Crowley pulls a cigarette from the pack and lights it with a spark from his fingers. He inhales deeply and exhales, watching the smoke curl.

For an immortal being, it’s shocking how ephemeral Crowley feels in the moment. There’s nothing grounding him. He is here one minute, feet on the earth, and then gone the next. His emotions are so volatile. Why is that? Why can’t he settle in here after the end of the world? 

“Isn’t it lovely,” Aziraphale begins, drawing Crowley’s attention. “To wake up with you and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much.”

Crowley cocks his head, ear caught by the cadence of the words. “That a quote?”

“Frank O’Hara,” Aziraphale acknowledges. “I read a lot of him. Last time we were here.”

“So did I,” Crowley admits before taking another drag. “Read a lot of him after too. When I missed you.”

Aziraphale slips his arm into Crowley’s and tips his head onto his shoulder. 

A breeze picks up, rustling the branches of the sleeping trees and making both of them shiver.

“I think I’m scared,” Crowley admits, shocking himself. 

“Of what?” Aziraphale replies quietly.

“How much I love you.”

The arm in his tenses and releases. “I think it is scary. To put your heart in someone else’s hands.”

Crowley takes another drag and looks at the moon. “I put mine in yours years ago. And then you broke it.”

It’s just the truth. And at this point Crowley is tired of walking around it on tiptoe. 

Before Aziraphale can reply—probably apologize—Crowley adds, “I think I broke yours too.”

Aziraphale sniffles and Crowley knows he’s crying. He can’t look at him though. Or else he’ll break down too.

“I think I broke it myself, actually,” Aziraphale says, voice choked. 

Maybe it’s both. Maybe they smashed each other to bits. And in the process, broke a little something of themselves.

Crowley finishes his cigarette and says, “I guess all we can do is move forward then.”

“Forward,” Aziraphale confirms.

Good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two or three more chapters I think
> 
> thanks for sticking with me on this ride! it's wildly personal (as it turns out) so it feels good to share


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter! i expected there to be 2 chapters but they were short so I rolled them into one!
> 
> beta'ed by LoudAlligator

Aziraphale isn’t exactly happy with what has happened between him and Crowley, but he is relieved. It might not be permanent but the tension between them suddenly feels broken. A release of pressure sure as a blocked steam valve finally being opened.

Their last week at the Dowling’s is characterized by Crowley’s tentative touches. They feel different now. Less desperate.

Aziraphale thinks perhaps Crowley has been trying to heal his heart through sheer force of will all this time. What happened in the bedroom forced him to realize sometimes healing has to happen in painful inches. Even Aziraphale, whose hurt is older and put to rest, feels pangs of regret and guilt now and again. Especially when Crowley’s gaze skitters to the side when he asks for something. When he blushes just because he touched Aziraphale’s hand somewhere Warlock can see.

It’s slow. Aziraphale feels like a human teenager, not sure of his footing and desperately in love.

But he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Harriet informs them during a very distressed phone call that the situation in America hasn’t improved and can they see Warlock back to school net week? They agree. Of course. And Warlock seems fine with it all but Aziraphale has a sense that he misses his mother. It’s only fair. Warlock is an eleven year old boy. He should love his mother.

As it is, they drive him to Cranleigh and drop him off with a few hugs. Crowley whispers something into Warlock’s ear that makes the boy giggle before trotting off into the main school building. Aziraphale climbs back into the Bentley and sighs.

“He’s a good kid,” Crowley says into the silence, not starting the car. “He might have got handed a shit hand, but he’s ok.”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “I suppose you could characterize being mistaken for the antichrist as a  _ shit hand _ .”

Crowley snorts and grips the wheel of the car. Aziraphale glances at him and sees his white knuckles and rigid posture. Hestill hasn’t started the car so Aziraphale thinks he might have a few more things to say. 

“Are you alright, dearheart?” Aziraphale asks quietly. Crowley scoffs. And then frowns. He flexes his fingers.

“I’m nervous,” he confesses, staring at his lap. Aziraphale can’t see his eyes but he reads honesty in the tight line of his mouth.

“About what?” he asks, keeping his tone neutral. 

“We finally…” Crowley clears his throat. Glances at him. “We finally worked it out. Sort of. What if, in London, it’s not…”

Aziraphale’s mouth parts on a silent  _ ah _ of understanding. “I think that if things are wildly different in London then we can figure it out again. I have faith in us.”

Crowley swallows and Aziraphale can see the bob of his Adam's apple. He sort of wants to kiss it. That’s not exactly new. Aziraphale has wanted to kiss Crowley all over for centuries. Not just his throat. He wants to kiss the freckles on his shoulders. He remembers a little scar on his hip that he used to trace with his tongue before moving down Crowley’s thighs. His heart races at the memory. He wants Crowley so desperately. 

He wants to use his hands to show Crowley exactly how he feels. But not yet. Crowley is not ready. It could be a very long time before he is.

“I love you,” Crowley says to the windscreen and Aziraphale’s eyes prickle beneath the surge of intense gratitude in his chest. He is lucky. Not even a year ago he’d been certain he would never hear those words again. He had been sick with regret over not appreciating every time Crowley said them in their little cottage in a garden all those years ago. He thinks he knows how to handle the words now.

He leans across the seat and kisses Crowley’s cheek. “I love you too, darling. Very much.”

Crowley exhales, long and slow. 

Aziraphale pats his thigh. “Let’s go home. I’d love to take out these teeth.”

“I’d love for you to take out those teeth too,” Crowley grumbles.

* * *

Life in this city is much as it has ever been. It snows on occasion and when it does, Crowley appears in the bookshop nonchalantly declaring that he was bored and wanted Aziraphale to entertain him. But Aziraphale knows it’s because his darling serpent has never adapted to the cold weather, even if he won’t admit it (or wear sensible clothing). Aziraphale never comments on it though, just puts together a little nest of blankets on the old sofa. He’s conceded to a space heater which Crowley eyes suspiciously and calls a fire hazard, but he complains less about being ‘bored’ when it’s running. He gets this look on his face like he couldn’t be happier than where he is, but doesn’t want to show it. So Aziraphale kisses him on the forehead and tells him to call if he needs anything.

That usually results in Crowley laying on the couch and fiddling with his phone, occasionally cackling over something he calls  _ trolling social media _ . 

There’s an equitability slowly building between them. Not just Crowley coming to the bookshop. Not just Aziraphale saying how he feels. They are working towards finding a way to move in tandem and it's not as difficult as Aziraphale anticipated.

When it’s not snowing and the sun shines, Aziraphale makes his way to Mayfair and they spend the evenings cooking in Crowley’s flat. Crowley has been improving far faster than Aziraphale and he loves to lord it over him. Aziraphale takes his teasing valiantly because he loves how normal it is. How much like old times.

He also can’t complain because Crowley’s tiramisu is swiftly becoming one of his favorite treats.

They haven’t properly kissed since the Dowling’s. Crowley sometimes takes his hand and kisses the back before lacing their fingers together. Aziraphale has chanced several kisses on the cheek. But he’s waiting for Crowley. He reminds himself that there’s no rush despite the desire that burns in his gut. A low simmer that never seems to leave. He always  _ notices _ Crowley whenever he’s near. The tilt of his hips, the curve of his neck, the beautiful tendons of his hands.

He hasn’t cut his hair since playing at Nanny so he’s been wearing it in a ponytail more often than not. There’s so much of it and Aziraphale wants to sink his hands into it. 

He doesn’t think Crowley’s doing it on purpose but Aziraphale is nearly certain his shirts have been more low cut lately. He can’t remember the last time Crowley’s chest hair wasn’t on display. 

He feels fairly ridiculous about it all. Lusting over his partner so obviously. But Crowley doesn't mention it or tell him to stop. He doesn't seem uncomfortable. In fact, sometimes Aziraphale thinks he preens under the attention.

They are out to dinner at a Greek restaurant and Crowley has taken the opportunity to dress up. He looks wonderful. Tight black lines of a fitted button down and slim cut suit jacket. Aziraphale feels the ridiculous urge to drop to his knees in front of him so he can press his face into the flat plane of his abdomen, feel his hips grasped in his hands.

"Do I have something on my face?"

Aziraphale starts and realizes Crowley has caught him staring. He clears his throat and takes a sip of wine. 

"Er, no. You just...you look particularly fetching this evening."

Looking pleased, Crowley leans back in his chair and sucks on his teeth. "Like what you see? Put in the extra effort for you."

Aziraphale flushes. "You always look very nice and you know it. You don't need me to tell you."

"Yes, but I like it when you do," Crowley points out before dipping back into his moussaka. He's clearly pleased with the dish if the little secret smile on his mouth is anything to go by.

"Is there any particular reason you've decided to dress up?"

Crowley drops his fork and flushes nearly to his hair. "It's...um, Valentine's Day."

Aziraphale sucks in a breath, realizing that not only is it a human holiday but also the day they'd celebrated as an anniversary for six years. He looks around and sees all the other couples, the roses and gifts on the tables suddenly creating a picture that makes Aziraphale feel like a fool.

He snatches Crowley's hand where it lays on the table. How is he still so oblivious? He has been trying so hard to be better at noticing Crowley's feelings, his wants, and yet he'd forgotten Valentine's day. "I am so sorry. I forgot."

Crowley shrugs, but doesn’t pull his hand away. Despite that, he still doesn’t look at Aziraphale as he says, "Silly human holiday. I shouldn't've — It's not important."

Aziraphale might often be obtuse, but even he recognizes that as a lie.

"Let me make it up to you," Aziraphale declares, suddenly desperate to chase off the awkward look on Crowley's face.

"Next Friday. We can have a proper date. Exchange gifts." Aziraphale is already running through the myriad options for what Crowley might like. He thinks about bittersweet chocolate and a pretty ring.

Oh a ring. 

His heart skips a beat at the thought. He'd given Crowley a ring once. He has no idea where it ended up. Probably in a ditch somewhere after Aziraphale had broken his heart.

He takes a deep breath and tries to remember to forgive himself for those mistakes.

Crowley shrugs but is back to poking at his dinner. A small, secret smile tips the corner of his mouth. “Whatever you like.”

* * *

Aziraphale puts in  _ effort _ for this. He scours the internet for the right sort of gift. They are magical beings who can summon anything they desire from the ether so gift giving is a bit difficult. He has to put in thought. Put in heart.

After a rather long time browsing a site called Pinterest, he has an idea. He hopes it's a good idea.

He gets chocolates just in case.

Crowley is particularly cagey all week. He stalks through the bookshop and then disappears at odd hours. Every time Aziraphale tries to talk to him— about anything —- he makes excuses and rushes off. It’s quite irritating but Aziraphale is sure it’s simply an after effect of Crowley’s embarrassment at the Greek restaurant. He does so hate showing emotion.

Finally, Aziraphale manages to convince him to stay after closing on Wednesday and they crack open a bottle of wine. It turns into two bottles of wine and Crowley is talking about book binding like Aziraphale doesn’t know the topic inside and out. 

After a third bottle, Crowley ends up laying on the ground and staring at the ceiling. 

Aziraphale is happily drunk, watching Crowley gesticulate into the empty air above his face and then attempt to dribble wine into his mouth without sitting up. Ridiculous demon.

“I think I want to try again,” Crowley says, abruptly switching from the topic of the relative morality of sudoku puzzles.

Aziraphale tries to follow his train of thought and can’t.

“What?”

“Sex,” Crowley says and the whole word sounds like a hiss. Not an angry hiss. A drunk hiss.

“Sex,” Aziraphale chokes out. 

“Yuh,” Crowley grunts. “With you. Feeling all sorts of better about the whole...thing. Keep looking at your arse and wanting to touch it. Do you want to touch my arse?”

“Very much,” Aziraphale’s drunk mind allows him to say before he thinks better of it.

“I thought so. You make this pinched face when you’re horny.”

“Don’t say horny,” Aziraphale manages to say. “That’s crass.”

Crowley dissolves into a fit of giggles that results in knocking over his glass of wine. He cleans it up with a messy miracle and says, “I was thinking, yanno, anniversary an’ all. We could...go back to mine…”

Aziraphale processes that. “Wait. Are you...trying to be romantic?”

“No,” Crowley grunts, rolling onto his belly on the rug. “Maybe,” he says, a muffled addition into the carpet. “Just love you a stupid amount.”

Aziraphale beams. “I love you a stupid amount as well.”

* * *

The next morning Aziraphale asks him if he meant it and he says of course even though he trots off blushing and mumbling about Aziraphale being soppy and embarrassing. They both know, between them, which one of them is the soppy one.

Aziraphale makes all the arrangements and when Friday comes they have a reservation at the Ritz and Aziraphale has flowers in his hand, ready to make declarations and really woo Crowley. They’ve been wooing all this time really, shifting back to a place where they can be together in all the ways they used to be. 

Crowley answers his door and he does look very handsome. He’s wearing a red tie and that one pop of color draws Aziraphale’s eye. Lovely.

He hands Crowley the roses. Crowley laughs. 

“You and your roses,” he says, teasing lightly as they step inside. Crowley puts the roses in a vase in the entryway.

“Well, you always liked them at the cottage.”

Crowley shrugs. “I like how finicky they are. It makes the blooms feel more rewarding.”

Aziraphale laces their fingers together. “I have a few other things for you if you’d like to do all the gifts now.”

Crowley rolls his eyes but it’s all for show. Crowley loves gifts. He always gets that secretive smile that Aziraphale loves chasing. “Alright, fine.”

They take a seat in the living room and Aziraphale passes Crowley his chocolates which are taken with another laugh. “Very traditional, angel.”

It’s the final gift, the real gift, that makes Aziraphale nervous. He pulls the box out of his pocket and hands it to Crowley.

Crowley stares at it.

Aziraphale knows how loaded the presentation of a ring box is. He doesn’t mean to push anything so he says quickly, “In Japan, I bought you that ring. I wasn’t sure what happened to it so I...got you this.”

Crowley takes it, eyes wide as he pops it open. He looks at the ring for a long time. It’s more demure than the winding snake he’d given him in Japan. This is an ouroboros in platinum. Subtle and very Crowley.

Crowley lets out a disbelieving laugh and pulls it out to put it on his middle finger. It sits exactly how Aziraphale pictured it. 

“You’re not going to believe what I got you,” Crowley says, sounding somewhat hysterical. 

A package appears from nowhere and is being pushed into Aziraphale’s hands. It’s approximately book-shaped and Aziraphale expects to find some tome ensconced in matte black paper. But when he opens it he finds...a picture frame.

That photo. From Japan. That he had so hopefully displayed back in their cottage. Francis and Lilith in Asakusa. Smiling.

Tears gather in his eyes and he glances up at Crowley. The demon shrugs. “Thought it might be nice. We had good memories back then too.”

“Oh my dear boy,” Aziraphale says, throwing his arms around Crowley. He huffs in surprise but returns the embrace without comment. “You are utterly remarkable.”

They sit like that for a moment and then Crowley admits, “I still have the other ring you know. Couldn’t bear to throw it out.”

Aziraphale laughs wetly as he pulls back. “I should have known. You old romantic.”

Crowley narrows his eyes but doesn’t protest. Even he can’t pretend that he was saving it for any other reason than romantic sentiment. 

“Can I kiss you, love?” Aziraphale asks, hesitant. Crowley makes an incomprehensible noise in his throat but nods so Aziraphale closes the distance between them and brushes their mouths together.

It has been months since they kissed and it’s almost overwhelming. The kiss is light for the barest moment before Crowley is wrapping his arms around Aziraphale and pulling him closer. Arousal spikes in Aziraphale’s belly.

“Perhaps we should wait,” Aziraphale says. “Until after dinner.”

Crowley shakes his head and presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s jaw. “Sod dinner. We can order takeaway if we get peckish.”

Aziraphale swallows hard, but this had been the plan all along. He lets Crowley take his hand and together they go into the bedroom.

* * *

They are in Crowley’s bedroom and somehow that feels safe and reassuring. There is no mixed smell of lavender and peppermint. The bed is draped in black sheets. Not a floral pattern to be found. This is nothing like it was all those years ago. 

Aziraphale’s eyes are wide and beseeching as he fingers Crowley's tie.

“Can I take this off?”

Crowley swallows. Nods. Aziraphale's deft fingers brush his throat as he opens the knot. They are warm and sure and Crowley’s heart skips a beat.

"Shirt?" Aziraphale asks, pausing at Crowley tops button. He wants to be frustrated with Aziraphale's pace but he can only find it in himself to be thankful.

It’s a slow mutual effort to have them both down to their trousers. Aziraphale looks at him like he’s the most precious thing in the universe and it’s extremely overwhelming. 

Crowley tries to be ok with it.

Besides, Aziraphale is quite the sight himself.

It’s not Francis’s body. Not that body that Crowley punished himself with. That he broke his heart over. It’s Aziraphale. Still soft. His chest swells enough that Crowley can grasp it in his hands. He has a soft belly dusted in hair, and hips that make Crowley want to fall to his knees so he can bite over them.

He loves Aziraphale so much it hurts. It’s gratitude and love and joy pouring out of him. He wonders if Aziraphale, angel that he is, can feel it.

Aziraphale’s hands fall to his zip and he meets Crowley’s eyes. “Is this alright?”

Crowley needs a moment to fortify himself so he knocks his hands away and takes off his trousers himself. He’s just in his pants and it’s a bit vulnerable. But Crowley thinks that might be a good thing. 

When he meets Aziraphale’s gaze, the angel looks concerned and questioning. Perhaps Crowley had been a bit too aggressive in his attempts to take off his trousers without help and Aziraphale has misread that. Crowley brushes their hands together. To reassure. To touch.

"Can we get in the bed?" Crowley asks. His voice breaks. He's so nervous this is going to turn out poorly again but he wants to kiss Aziraphale. He needs Aziraphale to kiss him back. It might be greedy but he wants them to be able to have this.

Aziraphale herds him back against the mattress until they are both settled against the pillows. One soft hand cups his cheek and pulls him into a sweet kiss. "You'll stop me if it gets to be too much?"

Crowley doesn't have words. His vocal cords are all tangled up around his heart which seems to want to crawl into his mouth. He nods tightly and Aziraphale relaxes against him.

"Can I go down on you?" Aziraphale asks. His fingers are fiddling with the elastic of Crowley's briefs. Crowley takes the initiative to shuck off the underpants himself. As much of a  _ yes _ as he can manage. Aziraphale removes his trousers and tosses them aside. He's wearing tartan boxers because of course he is.

Aziraphale makes a  _ very _ pleased sound when he turns back to see Crowley laid on the bed. He runs soft hands up Crowley’s thighs, his fingers pausing on the arch of his hip bone before cradling his waist. A short breath punches out of Crowley’s chest at the expression on Aziraphale’s face.

Reverent.

"Oh, you are lovely.”

He leans down and kisses Crowley soundly. Their tongues slide together and Crowley back arches, seeking more. Aziraphale's hands roam over his chest, thumbing his nipples and then skating down to grasp his hips. Crowley spreads his legs to accommodate Aziraphale between them. And then it's Aziraphale's bare chest against his, the rub of chest hair. Aziraphale’s firm length pressing between Crowley's legs. He squirms as Aziraphale kisses his neck, nibbling at that one sensitive spot.

Aziraphale pauses between kisses to his collarbones. "Alright?"

"Yeah," Crowley says breathlessly. Because it is alright because he planned for this. He spent today emotionally preparing himself. So this doesn’t feel quite so much like drowning. This is Aziraphale doing something with him as easy as a stroll in the park or a shared meal. This is just another way to spend time together, to be close. There are so many ways to feel loved and this is just one of them.

Aziraphale hums happily, kneading the spare flesh at Crowley's hips before kissing down his belly and settling between his thighs. He runs delicate fingers through Crowley's pubic hair. It tickles. Then Aziraphale spreads him open and the anticipation of it all makes him pant. Deep heaving breaths. But it's good. So good.

Aziraphale glances up at him to confirm they aren't breaths of panic and Crowley has the presence of mind to be able to nod but he's fairly certain he's going to lose that ability soon.

Aziraphale, once given the green light, wastes no time. He traces Crowley's sex delicately at first, long soft licks over his folds before he begins to lap at his clit in a way that has Crowley gasping.

"Fuckkkk," Crowley grunts, hips jerking and Aziraphale settles calm hands on his belly to hold him in place as he draws Crowley's clit into his mouth and sucks.

Crowley says some things then. Maybe declarations of love. Mostly profanity. It feels so insanely good. Aziraphale is phenomenal at this, always has been. Once upon a time, his enthusiasm had made up for his lack of inexperience. But, regardless of anything else, they had learned each other’s bodies during their time in the cottage. Memorized the ways to bring each other pleasure. At least Crowley did. It seems Aziraphale did too.

When Crowley comes, it is with a sharp gasp and a stuttering of hips. Aziraphale sucks him through it and when he pulls off he looks up at Crowley with an absurdly pleased smile. "Did that feel good?"

Crowley, still breathing hard, scowls. "You know it did. Stop fishing for compliments."

Aziraphale chuckles and kisses his thighs which sends a delicious shiver through him.

"Do you think you could fuck me?" Crowley asks, hooking an ankle around Aziraphale's side. He feels the acute emptiness that follows a spectacular orgasm. Like his cunt is aching to be filled.

Aziraphale kisses him briefly and corrects, "I can make love to you."

Crowley rolls his eyes even though his heart fills up at the sentiment. 

Aziraphale takes off his pants and Crowley gets his first good look at him. His cock looks bigger like this. Probably because his belly is smaller.

"Why are you staring?" Aziraphale asks with a frown. 

"I just...never saw  _ you _ naked. Always Francis."

Aziraphale's eyes light up with understanding and he practically falls on Crowley to kiss him. "How do you want me, love?"

The ache from before is only growing deeper so Crowley gathers himself and asks for what he wants. He's getting better at that, he thinks.

"On top. Me on top."

Aziraphale lays against the pillows and strokes himself back to hardness which is a sight Crowley wants to burn into his mind forever because it might be the sexiest thing he's ever seen. He rises up on his knees to straddle him and Aziraphale's hands fly to his hips, eyes wide. "I love you."

Crowley can't stop the smile that breaks out on his face. "Yeah?"

Aziraphale nods, expression doing all manner of things like he can't decide if he wants to grin madly or cry.

Crowley grasps him and slides down on his length slowly, letting himself adjust. It's a beautiful perfect stretch and by the time he starts to move, Aziraphale is panting beneath him. He keeps saying his name, telling him how good he feels, how much he's wanted him. All it does is stoke the fire in Crowley's gut as he moves his hips faster. His orgasm is close and when Aziraphale grabs his hips tightly and thrusts up twice, it shatters over him in incandescent sparks.

Crowley collapses atop Aziraphale and vaguely registers him coming too. He's too busy trying to get his bearings. Finally, he flops onto his back, ready to stare at the ceiling and maybe drift to sleep.

But before he can, Aziraphsle is between his legs again, tracing his slit. Crowley sighs because bless it all, it feels good. Aziraphale pulls back and smirks the way only that bastard can smirk. 

"Think we could have a third?" he asks and then his mouth is on Crowley and thoughts of sleep disappear.

* * *

They get Thai food and eat it in bed. A concession to the occasion that Crowley says they will never do again but Aziraphale makes eyes at him and he knows he won't be able to hold out against that.

Aziraphale poaches a crab rangoon and munches on it happily. Crumbs go everywhere and Crowley glares at them.

"That was wonderful," Aziraphale announces and for a moment Crowley thinks he meant the rangoons and then he adds, "the sex."

Crowley spits out a noodle and coughs. "I mean...yeah. I...yeah."

Aziraphale cocks his head. "And you enjoyed yourself as well?"

Crowley nods, face flaming. Aziraphale lurches across the food between them and gives him a cream cheese and crab flavored kiss.

"We never have to do it again if you don't like it," Aziraphale says, eyes searching his face. "But I wanted to be clear that I enjoyed it."

"I enjoyed it too," Crowley mumbles, poking at his Pad See Eaw.

"Wonderful," Aziraphale says with a small bounce that threatens to tip the peanut sauce onto Crowley's expensive sheets. It stays upright under the force of Crowley’s glare.

"I was thinking when spring comes, we could go on another holiday," Aziraphale says. "Perhaps Japan? I would so love to see more of it. Though we could stay somewhere domestic."

Crowley thinks of Japan and how fraught it was. It might be nice to replace those memories with better ones. A wiser part of himself points out that it’s probably too soon, they’ve just started to settle in together, to find a rhythm. Why tear at old wounds when the fresh ones are barely healed?

He doesn’t have to say anything because Aziraphale is still prattling on, thinking out loud that way he does when he’s content. "I'd really just like to go somewhere green. It's been such a gray winter and nothing really makes you appreciate the earth like greenery."

Crowley smiles. He likes the sound of that. "Yeah. Somewhere green."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> I can't thank you enough for sticking with me through this series. It is by far my favorite thing I have written in all my time in fandom. Perhaps one day that will change. But for now, I can't tell you how much I appreciated all your comments and support as I wrote this crazy exploration of my own heart.
> 
> Thank you and stay safe.


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